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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/27724484">I Left My Heart in Lima</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/AmazonWorrier/pseuds/AmazonWorrier'>AmazonWorrier</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>Loving You is Just an Old Habit [1]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Glee</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>F/F, Just lots of Angst, Mentions of School Shooting, brittana endgame, but nothing graphic, no gay deaths here, this isn't the CW</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-11-26</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2021-01-24</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-10 17:13:29</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Mature</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>5</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>23,668</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/27724484</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/AmazonWorrier/pseuds/AmazonWorrier</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Long distance best friendships are hard, especially when you used to be in love. After moving to New York, Santana finds herself stuck in an endless game of phone tag with Brittany that she is both desperate to escape and terrified to put an end to. One afternoon, she receives a text message she couldn't possibly ignore.</p><p>A reimagining of the events from 4x18 - Shooting Star</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Blaine Anderson/Kurt Hummel, Quinn Fabray &amp; Santana Lopez, Rachel Berry &amp; Kurt Hummel &amp; Santana Lopez, Rachel Berry &amp; Santana Lopez, Sam Evans/Brittany S. Pierce, Santana Lopez/Brittany S. Pierce</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>Loving You is Just an Old Habit [1]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/series/2095188</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>43</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>128</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. Terribly Alone & Forgotten</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p class="p1"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">It’s not love, what she has with Brittany.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Maybe once upon a time it was. Maybe, for one fleeting moment in senior year, when they finally felt free enough to show the world who they really were together, Santana would’ve proudly called it that.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Love.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Now, it’s the illusion of best friendship because both are too afraid to let go. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Now, it’s an endless string of missed phone calls and sporadic texts; because neither of them would ever be the person who ends what they had for good by not messaging back.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Now, Santana is in New York with Kurt and Rachel, trying her luck at the whole ‘life’ thing.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">And Brittany is in Lima with… </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Brittany is in Lima. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">It’s not love. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">It's limbo.</span>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">______________________________________________________________________________</span>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> <em>6:51am</em> </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> <em>BrittBritt: Tubbs joined the KKKK :(</em> </span>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> <em>7:03am</em> </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> <em>BrittBritt: Also</em> </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> <em>BrittBritt: There’s an asteroid heading for Earth soon</em> </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> <em>BrittBritt: Have you still got that disaster kit I sent you for the Mayan Apocalypse?</em> </span>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> <em>7:15am</em> </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> <em>BrittBritt: Let me know if you don’t and I’ll send a new one</em> </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> <em>BrittBritt: Better safe than sorry x</em> </span>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Santana groaned, cracking one eye open and reaching out towards the coffee table for her phone so she could find out who the hell she needed to KILL for texting her this early on a week day. Reading the name on the screen, she found herself greeted by that familiar ache she felt whenever a certain blonde somebody found the time in her busy second-senior year schedule to reach out. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Maybe killing was off the table.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Her thumb hesitated over the keyboard. The last thing she wanted after working the late shift for the fourth night in a row at Coyote Ugly was to be reminded of a fake Mayan Apocalypse where she’d been so graciously informed by Tina Cohen-Chang about a rumour that Brittany married Sam because she thought the world was ending. All Santana got was a damn backpack with some sour patch kids, an umbrella and a text message that said <em>‘see you on the other side.’</em></span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">She typed out a response for the sake of responding, then threw the phone back down onto the table. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Her and Brittany been playing this game for a while now, and Santana felt herself breaking more at every turn. But there was no way she’d be the one taking the blame for their friendship ending, even if it had all but fizzled out into nothingness already. She flopped back onto the couch, burying her head under the blanket and falling back to sleep within seconds.</span>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> <em>7:17am</em></span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <em>Santana: Still got it :)</em>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> <em>11:39am </em> </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> <em>BrittBritt: No one believes me about Tubbingtonbop </em> </span>
</p><p class="p1"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> <em>11:41am </em> </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> <em>BrittBritt: Do you think I should go to college?</em> </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> <em>BrittBritt: They all keep asking me to go visit cos of that pattern I drew on my SAT paper</em> </span>
</p><p class="p1"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Santana was sandwiched between Kurt and Rachel on the couch in the living room. It was the first mutual day off they’d had in weeks, and the dumb roommate code Berry invented when they all began living together meant Santana was forced to spend it with them. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">They could’ve been doing absolutely anything, because this was <em>New York. </em>Instead, they were sitting at home watching <em>She’s Having a Baby. </em>Apparently that was allowed again, now that Rachel knew she wasn’t. Having a baby, that is. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">She could feel Tweedle Diva and Tweedle Glum casting sideways glances in her direction every time her phone buzzed, but it was easy enough to pretend she hadn’t noticed. Ignoring the pair had been a common practice for her for most of their high school years, and it was a skill that still came in handy from time to time when they were being particularly… themselves.</span>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> <em>11:42am </em> </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> <em>BrittBritt: NYU called btw</em> </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> <em>BrittBritt: That could be fun :)</em> </span>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Eventually, Kurt paused the film and turned to her in a huff. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Okay, if you’re not going to answer it,” he squawked, “Can you at least put it on silent?”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">With a scowl, Santana reached forward to grab her phone. She made a deliberate show of unlocking it, tapping out a reply without breaking eye contact with Kurt, before switching the sound off. Behind her, Rachel cleared her throat uncomfortably.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“There, I did both,” Santana retorted, “Happy?”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Kurt pursed his lips, hitting play on the remote, “Ecstatic.”</span>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> <em>11:44am</em></span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> <em> Santana: I thought the world was ending?</em> </span>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Without the incessant noise interrupting them constantly, it had been easy for all three of the New York loft-mates to pretend Santana’s phone hadn’t lit up again, only moments later.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">(Santana read it anyway, discretely: from a distance)</span>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> <em>11:45am</em> </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> <em>BrittBritt: Yeah true :(</em> </span>
</p><p class="p1"> </p><p class="p1"> </p><p class="p1"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">She’d been with Berry, shopping for organic fruit at a local street market like some sort of uptown hipster lesbian couple. It was early afternoon. Kurt broke the roommate pledge and wandered off to a vintage clothing store down the road, because even <em>he </em>couldn’t bare to go food shopping with Rachel Berry. The girl could be really intense.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Can you believe this?” Rachel screeched. Her roommate was waving some sort of packaged cardboard substance in her direction, which Santana could only assume was meant to be edible. “They wrap it in green packaging, and suddenly it’s ‘vegan<em>’ </em>even though it’s got traces of meat in it? It's outrageous.” </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“The <em>nerve</em>.” Santana mocked, traipsing past the stall to find the stand she’d seen last time with those quirky cigarette lighters. She’d started smoking a lot more since she moved into the loft, because Rachel and Kurt had that kind of effect on people. Santana rolled her eyes at the unmistakeable sound of Berry loudly shaming the owner of the fake-vegan stall. Something like this happened every damn time they came here. It was so embarrassing.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Out of the corner of her eye, Santana noticed her phone screen lighting up like it’d decided to throw an impromptu rave in her bag. She sighed, reluctantly taking it out to read the inevitable onslaught of messages she’d missed from Brittany in the short time they’d been shopping. Santana wasn’t sure why the blonde had chosen today of all days to remember she existed. They’d barely spoken in weeks.</span>
</p><p class="p1"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> <em>1:53pm</em> </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> <em>BrittBritt: False alarm</em> </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> <em>BrittBritt: Dead ladybug, not an asteroid :D </em> </span>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> <em>2:05pm</em> </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> <em>BrittBritt: So NYU?</em> </span>
</p><p class="p1"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> <em>2:15pm</em> </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> <em>BrittBritt: Someone’s here</em> </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> <em>BrittBritt: At school</em> </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> <em>BrittBritt: I think I heard gunshots</em> </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> <em>BrittBritt: Santana help what do I do?</em> </span>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Santana froze. A man bumped into her back, cursing under his breath when she didn’t turn around to apologise, but as if that mattered to her when she’d just received the kind of text message that isn’t ever supposed to flash up on someone’s phone. This is the kind of thing that happens to <em>other </em>people. People she doesn’t know. Not people she… </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">People she cares about.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">As she frantically typed out a reply, Santana could feel her heart beating right out of her chest. She thanked whatever power in the universe had made her see the message so soon after it was sent. <em>This </em>is why she never put her phone on silent. </span>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p2">
  <em>2:16pm</em>
</p><p class="p2">
  <em>Santana: Where are you??</em>
</p><p class="p1"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> <em>2:16pm</em> </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> <em>BrittBritt: Bathroom stall</em> </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> <em>BrittBritt: I locked it</em> </span>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> <em> 2:16pm</em> </span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <em>Santana: Get up on the toilet seat</em>
</p><p class="p2">
  <em>Santana: Hide your legs</em>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">There was a lump forming in the back of her throat, and Santana could feel her hands starting to tremble so much it felt like the phone might slip from her fingertips if she didn’t get it back under control. Rachel had caught up by now. She could feel the other girl watching her.</span>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> <em>2:17pm</em> </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> <em>BrittBritt: Okay I’m up</em> </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> <em>BrittBritt: I’m so scared</em> </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> <em>BrittBritt: What if they come in?</em> </span>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Santana,” Rachel’s voice was laced with concern, and it was only then that Santana realised her eyes were watering, “What’s wrong?” </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Berry put a hand on her arm, and Santana jolted back. She shook her head, clueless as to what she was supposed to say. All she could focus on was the phone. On Brittany. Anything else was too much.</span>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p2">
  <em>2:18pm</em>
</p><p class="p2">
  <em>Santana: Just stay quiet</em>
</p><p class="p2">
  <em>Santana: It’ll be okay, I promise.</em>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Okay seriously, what is going on?” Rachel pressed, “I thought you put that thing on silent.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">At Rachel’s words, Santana’s stomach dropped. Brittany never put her phone on silent. She was always too worried about missing calls from Lord Tubbington. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Oh my god,” Santana’s voice cracked, “No, no, no.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">She typed furiously, wracked with fear. Rachel was all but pushing her way into Santana’s shoulder to read her messages at this point, but Santana pulled away; a force of habit more than anything else. </span>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> <em>2:19pm</em> </span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <em>Santana: Is your phone on silent?</em>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Three bubbles appeared to indicate that Brittany was typing, and Santana felt immediate relief. If Brittany’s phone hadn’t been on silent, it would be now. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">She’d caught it in time.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">As Santana waited for Brittany to finish typing, she briefly thought of all their other friends who were left at McKinley. Were they okay? She should tell Rachel. Rachel could find out if the others were okay while she dealt with Brittany. Not that they could do anything to help. Shit, they couldn’t do <em>anything. </em></span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">All she could do was wait. Santana had to ride this out with her. With Brittany. <em>Her </em>Brittany. Except, she wasn’t hers anymore because Santana had left her behind over a stupid ‘energy exchange’ and now her best friend was trapped in a fucking bathroom stall in Ohio with an active shooter on the loose. </span>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> <em>2:19pm </em> </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> <em>BrittBritt: …</em> </span>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> <em>2:20pm</em> </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> <em>BrittBritt: …</em> </span>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> <em>2:21pm</em> </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> <em>BrittBritt: …</em> </span>
</p><p class="p1"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> <em>2:22pm</em> </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> <em>BrittBritt: …</em> </span>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> <em>2:23pm</em> </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> <em>BrittBritt: …</em> </span>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Minutes passed by without another word from Brittany, and Santana felt bile forming in the back of the throat; ears engulfed by a piercing wave of white noise. Rachel was shaking her by the shoulder, trying to get her attention. The movement had been enough for Santana’s hand to fail completely, giving way and releasing the phone to the concrete beneath them with a heavy thud. Rachel reached for it, and Santana could tell by the way the other girl’s face fell as she read the messages that those three bubbles were still lingering there. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Three bubbles, taunting them with the promise of a message that would never come.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">______________________________________________________________________________</span>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">It <em>is</em> love. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Santana can tell by the way her heart breaks.</span>
</p><p class="p1"> </p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. The Morning Fog Will Chill The Air</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Thanks for all the kind comments so far! Hope you enjoy :)</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p class="p1"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">It’s not real, what she feels towards Brittany.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Real is there, within reach. Real is tangible, and whole. Real is mutual; more than just a desperate one-sided longing for someone who moved on from a relationship before the dust had even settled.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">A <em>real </em>girlfriend. That’s what Brittany told her to find. As opposed to a fake one, like all those times before. A real girlfriend that she’d apparently find in New York, where there were more options than Lima. More options than Brittany.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Real.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Santana’s been playing a part for so long she’s not sure what real even is anymore.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">She’s Santana Lopez, the badass bitch from Lima Heights Adjacent. A hardcore friend, even to those people who jump to think the worst of her. People who have every reason to be wary, because she’s proven them right more times than she can count, but whom she resents for it anyway. Santana is rash and unpredictable, to the point where she barely understands herself sometimes. A cold-hearted bitch to everyone except the girl who’s already forgotten her.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">The girl she texted during a mass shooting.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">The girl who forgot to put her phone on silent.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">The girl she hasn’t heard from since.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">It’s not real.</span>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">It can’t be.</span>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">______________________________________________________________________________</span>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> <em>2:45pm</em> </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> <em>Rachel: Have you heard from Blaine today?</em> </span>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> <em> 2:46pm</em> </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> <em> Kurt: No, why?</em> </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> <em>2:47pm</em> </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> <em>Rachel: Call me.</em> </span>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">It took two hours before they found out what happened. Two hours of waiting. Two hours of Rachel and Kurt screaming at each other, debating whether or not to call their friends in fear of putting them in further danger. Two hours of watching the news, where all channels were now focused solely on the ‘developing situation’ at a public high school in Lima, Ohio. Their high school.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Two hours, twelve gunshots heard. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Fatalities unknown.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Two hours without a single word from Brittany.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Twelve gunshots heard.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“I’m going back,” Santana announced. It was the first time she’d spoken since they got home. Her roommates stopped their squawking, turning to her in bewilderment. She didn’t bother to explain, standing up from the kitchen table and grabbing her purse. As she headed for the door, Kurt had mumbled something in agreement and followed suit. They were half way out of the loft, jackets in hand, before Rachel decided to try out level-headedness for once.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Guys, would you just stop and think about this for a minute?” she pleaded, “We don’t know what’s happened.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Exactly,” Kurt twisted her words, “We have no idea what’s happened. I’m not waiting around for a phone call, Rachel.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“What are you going to do?” Rachel was flustered, “Storm the school to find them?”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Yes,” Santana put her coat on.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Apparently Kurt hadn’t been on the same page about that part, though. He and Rachel paused, glancing frantically between each other in that annoying shared-braincell way of theirs; the one that said Santana was about to be lectured over a bad decision. She didn’t particularly care for it, especially not now. Because she hadn’t heard from Brittany in two hours, and that could only mean-</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Let’s just wait it out, okay?” Rachel put a cautious hand on her arm, “By the time you get there, it’ll be over.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“It’s already over,” Santana shoved the girl away, stomach curling with dread at the thought of being right.</span>
</p><p class="p1">There was a part of her, even now, that still vibrated at the same frequency as Brittany. The frequency that linked them together as one regardless of whatever distance or other pointless crap stood between them. It was the part of her that had always been able to sense when Brittany was upset. The part of her that could read Brittany's actions from a mile off, and know what they were really about when the rest of the world dismissed her as an oddball; an idiot. It was the part of her that knew when Brittany couldn't sleep, and what would be keeping her awake. Now, it was an awful, terribly knowing part of her that was screaming in agony, because the link that had always been there was broken, and she couldn't feel anything at all. </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Two hours, twelve gunshots, and not a word from Brittany since they last texted.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Her psychic Mexican third eye was never wrong.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">There’d been no more room for argument, because then the TV was reporting that the shooter had been arrested, and they all let out the breath they’d been holding since the markets. Moments later, when the distinct sound of a vibrating phone filled the room, Santana had foolishly allowed herself to feel hope. Hope, that was quashed the minute she took her phone out and saw the caller ID.</span>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> <em>Lips.</em> </span>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Santana could feel her hands trembling, and Rachel and Kurt watched on in abject horror, because even they weren’t foolish enough to think there’d be any reason for Sam Evans to be calling her in the wake of a mass shooting, that didn’t directly relate to Brittany. Santana had abandoned their tentative friendship the minute he pursued Brittany behind her back. She was all they had in common now.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">If she didn’t answer it wouldn't be real, right?</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Santana,” Kurt urged her gently, and it was enough. She realised she had to know, because the alternative was <em>not</em> knowing, and Santana wasn’t sure she could go on a minute longer in that state of being. She felt her thumb tracing over the button on the phone without permission, then exhaled shakily as it accepted the call on her behalf.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Tell me she’s okay.”</span>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> <em>6:03pm</em> </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> <em>PillowPrincess: I just heard</em> </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> <em>PillowPrincess: Are you alright?</em> </span>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> <em>6:10pm</em> </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> <em>PillowPrincess: Sorry, stupid question</em> </span>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> <em>6:20pm</em> </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> <em>PillowPrincess: I’m here if you need to talk</em> </span>
</p><p class="p1"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> <em>7:30pm </em> </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"><em>Boobs: Thanks Fabray.</em> </span>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">After the world’s longest train ride back to Lima, Santana and Kurt arrived at the hospital. It was just before midnight. They’d left Rachel behind, because her Funny Girl callback was coming up, and no one needed to ask her what was more important. It was better that they didn’t, actually, so Santana wouldn’t rip her throat out over it.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">The news had reported one dead and four injured. The dust was still settling, but as far as they were aware, nearly all of the New Directions had come out of the McKinley High school shooting unscathed.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Nearly.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">It felt like a fever dream. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Sam said she’d gone to the bathroom during glee club rehearsal. When the first shot went off, Coach Bieste and Mr Schue had barricaded everyone in the choir room. Trouty Mouth reckoned he’d tried to get out, to go after her, but the others had held him back. Talked him down, because it wasn’t safe out there. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">All Santana heard after that point were excuses.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Sue Sylvester was the one who found Brittany in the end. She was all alone, bleeding out on the bathroom floor, reaching desperately for a phone a fraction too far away. There had been two bullet holes in the stall door; one lodged in the tile behind the toilet, and one in Brittany’s abdomen.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Santana thanked whatever higher power made Sue into the insane survivalist she was, because the woman had Macgyvered her way out of the situation and stopped the bleeding long enough for help to arrive. She waited in the bathroom with Brittany for an hour, barricading both doors with whatever she could find to keep them safe. Now, Brittany was in emergency surgery.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">All they could do was wait.</span>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> <em>1:45am</em> </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> <em>BlockedCaller: Any news?</em> </span>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Santana jolted upright at the sound of the phone. Next to her, Kurt was dozing in and out on Blaine’s shoulder, hands entwined. Santana felt herself bristle at the sight, envying them for getting a reunion she was robbed of. Brittany’s parents waited opposite, and Santana felt an overwhelming urge to go to them, to <em>be </em>with them, but it didn’t feel like she had that right anymore. Trouty Mouth was in the corner next to Mr Schue and Sue.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Sleeping. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Santana scowled, typing out a quick message back to Rachel because she urgently needed her phone for something else now. She hit send, then pegged it across the room; smacking Sam Evans in the face so hard that Mr Schue nearly fell out of his chair in shock.</span>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> <em>1:48am</em></span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> <em>Santana Lopez: No. </em></span>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Sam woke with a start, bolting upright and staring at her like she’d just told him there were no more babies heads in the world left for him to polish. The whole room was staring, but Santana couldn’t find it within her to care. Sam deserved a lot more than a phone to the face. Brittany, his <em>girlfriend, </em>his fucking Mayan Apocalypse <em>wife, </em>was on death’s door and he was falling asleep?</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Fuck him. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Santana marched over, intent on grabbing her phone and nothing else. Because she wasn’t about to start a fight in a hospital while her best friend’s life was on the line. She had standards. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Santana,” Mr Schue warned, and she had <em>not </em>missed that condescendingly arrogant tone of his. She didn’t miss how he always immediately thought the worst of her either, because most people did. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">She was growing tired of proving them wrong.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Grabbing the phone from where it landed on the floor, Santana had genuinely intended to return to her seat without another word, but Trouts had other ideas. Stupid ideas, as he had become so well known for. He caught her by the arm, speaking in an annoyingly condescending tone that made her skin crawl.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“I know you’re upset, but you’re not the only one here who cares about her.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“No, but apparently I am the only one of us who cares enough to wait up<em>,” </em>Santana sneered, swatting his hand away then shoving him in the chest, for good measure.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Apparently that was enough for Sam to drop his thinly veneered boy-next-door attitude, because suddenly he was stepping into her space angrily, and shoving her back, “Hey, I tried to get to her. I tried-”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“You left her,” Santana shook her head, holding a sob in the back of her throat, “You left her on her own and she got shot, you idiot.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“No <em>you </em>left her,” Sam bit back.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Santana cackled disbelievingly, because of course he’d play that card. Of course he’d blame her, for not being at a school she'd already graduated from when an event that none of them, in their worst nightmares, could’ve possibly foreseen.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">She should’ve walked away.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">She didn’t.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">A switched flipped, then Snix came out to play. Santana felt herself surging forward like a predator, teeth bared and claws out with intent to kill. She sent Sam crashing into the wall, knocking a picture frame off its hook behind him. In an instant, Sue Sylvester was pulling her back by the shoulders, and putting herself between them before Santana could think to inflict more damage. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Cool it, Sandbags,” Sue warned, her voice alarmingly low.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Deep down, Santana knew she was right. What was she going to do, kill a teenager with her bare hands in a hospital of all places? She shook off her former coach’s vice grip, becoming acutely aware of the horrified expressions on everyone’s faces around her; judging her, as if her reaction to Sam Evans <em>falling asleep </em>while Brittany’s life was at stake wasn’t completely justified.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Well, fuck them too.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Santana swallowed, turning to nod politely towards Whitney and Pierce, who nodded back as if they hadn’t just witnessed her physically assault a high school student in a hospital waiting room. She could hear Sam sobbing behind her, and Blaine and Kurt cooing over him like he was some sort of lost child, but she didn’t care. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Fresh air. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">She could use some of that right now.</span>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> <em>2:23am</em> </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> <em>PillowPrincess: Attacking someone in a hospital?</em> </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> <em>PillowPrincess: How very efficient of you.</em> </span>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> <em> 2:24am</em> </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> <em> Boobs: News travels fast</em> </span>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Sure does.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Santana looked up to find Quinn standing a few metres away, dressed far too elegantly for 2am in the morning; a perfect picture of beauty in the face of tragedy, as she so often seemed to be. Santana was hiding out near the ambulance bay, cigarette in one hand and phone in the other. Quinn had approached wordlessly, snatching the cigarette from her hand and claiming it as her own.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“I didn’t realise you were coming,” Santana lit another cigarette.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“One of my two closest friends was just shot,” Quinn inhaled deeply, closing her eyes in relief as the wave of nicotine washed over her, “The other is about to set the world on fire. Of course I came back.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Not the world,” Santana rolled her eyes, then shrugged in defeat, “Maybe Lima.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Quinn hummed, contemplating the response, “I call dibs on McKinley.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Santana choked back a mirthless laugh, and that was the end of it. They smoked in silence, perfectly in sync with one another. When Quinn let out a quiet shiver, they instinctively huddled in closer together, and Santana was reminded of all those nights at cheer camp when Sue had locked them out of their cabins to ‘build character.’ </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">It was bittersweet to think that had once been the most pressing issue the three of them faced. Cast out alone in the cold, in the dead of night, while the rest of their team slept safely indoors because they weren’t ‘gifted’ enough for Sue to pay any attention to them. Three, always three. The Unholy Trinity. Santana couldn't help but wonder what would become of them if-</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Stop it,” Quinn scolded.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">The comment snapped Santana straight of her downward thought spiral; her Cheerio brain still conditioned to do whatever it was told when it heard that particular tone of voice directed her way. She turned to look at the blonde, quirking an eyebrow up in confusion.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“I know what you’re thinking,” Quinn huffed, “Stop it.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“I can’t,” Santana swallowed, question catching on the tip of her tongue, “What if I’m right?”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Quinn stared blankly at the space in front of them, and for a second Santana thought the other girl might not have heard her. Then her eyes had darkened, and Santana saw a brief flash of the real Quinn. The one that stayed hidden until she was forced out to play, when things like homelessness and teen pregnancy and car accidents smashed the perfectly crafted illusion of ‘Quinn Fabray' into pieces. It was the real Quinn who had been strong enough, <em>controlled</em> enough, to keep a straight face whenever the idiots around them told her she wasn’t allowed to act out. The one that didn’t attack them, like Santana would’ve, when people criticised her for having emotions because she was privileged; like that somehow meant she couldn’t suffer out loud like everyone else. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">The real Quinn was more than qualified to lead them both safely through their current predicament to the other side, and Santana was so very glad she’d shown up. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“We fall apart if it happens,” the blonde cleared her throat and tossed the stolen cigarette aside, before snatching Santana’s from her hand and doing the same, “Not before.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Then Quinn was interlacing her fingers with Santana’s and dragging her back inside before she got another word in.</span>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> <em>3:35am</em> </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> <em>BlockedCaller: Any update?</em> </span>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> <em> 3:36am</em> </span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <em>Santana Lopez: Stop asking.</em>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">The pair kept to themselves when they returned to the waiting room. No one was interested in talking to them anyway. It was easier, Santana thought, having the other girl there. They were pack animals, and up until now Santana had been the only lion in a room full of antelope, which wasn’t particularly good for either party. Quinn was her only ally here.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Quinn would protect them both.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">The blonde turned the page of her book and Santana wondered, as she often did, how the girl always managed to be carrying a five hundred page hardcover everywhere she went, even when her purse was too small to accomodate it.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Then Santana felt a tall figure towering above her, and she’d almost expected round two with Sam Evans. What she hadn’t anticipated was to find Whitney Pierce there, watching her with baggy, bloodshot eyes. Santana rushed to move her belongings from the chair next to them, making space. Whitney had sat down quietly, eyes glazed over and staring out the window a few feet in front of them. Santana’s hand itched to reach out and take the woman’s hand in hers, but she needn’t have bothered.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Whitney reached out first. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Santana’s breath caught in her throat as she gripped onto the woman’s hand, because this was Brittany’s Mom. This was the woman who’d stuffed her full with countless dinners when her parents were out of town, or working late. The woman who caught Santana in far too many compromising positions with her daughter, but laughed it off as young love and made them uncomfortable with lengthy stories about her own sexual conquests with Brittany’s Dad. The woman whose only response to Brittany’s sexual fluidity had been to research ‘the gays’ so she could be ready for whoever walked through the front door with her daughter, only to give up moments later and tell Brittany she’d prefer it if that person was always Santana. The woman responsible for raising Santana’s soulmate, who loved Brittany just as fiercely as she did. They held onto each other, taking comfort in the quiet knowledge that if things were to go south, they’d crumble together.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">It was almost enough.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">The Doctor had emerged about half an hour later, and neither Santana or Whitney had moved from their position. As the woman approached them, Whitney squeezed her hand so tightly Santana was sure a vein might burst. The Doctor's expression was unreadable, and Santana recalled what her Father had told her about medical professionals being trained to deliver bad news without emotion. Her stomach filled with fear, because this was it.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">The wait was over. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Mrs. Pierce?” the Doctor asked. Whitney bolted up, frantically smoothing the front of her blouse out like it mattered at all what she looked like.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Yes,” Whitney babbled nervously, “Yes, that’s me.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">The Doctor smiled tightly, and in that moment a tiny part of Santana dared to dream it might be okay, “Brittany made it through surgery.” </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Pierce had appeared just in time to hear the news. He and Whitney gasped in relief, clutching onto each other and thanking the Doctor profusely for saving their daughter’s life. Santana let out a strangled sob, then felt herself being pulled over the arm of the chair onto Quinn’s lap for a seated hug. She clutched onto the girl like a lifeline, as the weight of every emotion she’d repressed over the last few hours finally overwhelmed her.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Brittany was alive.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“She’s in the ICU for observation,” the Doctor continued, “Would you like to follow me?”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">At that, almost everyone in the waiting room had rushed up from their seats. The Doctor cleared her throat awkwardly, “Family only for now, I’m afraid.” </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Santana barely had time to feel her heart break over it, before Whitney was pulling her up from Quinn’s lap to follow them. The Doctor glanced between them all, noting the obvious lack of resemblance and raising a suspicious eyebrow.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“What? She’s family,” Whitney insisted, “Takes after her Father.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Pierce nodded adamantly, and it was such an obvious lie that Santana worried they’d been caught. Pierce was Asian, Whitney was blonde, and Santana looked absolutely nothing like either of them unless you counted the matching tear tracks on all of their faces right now. But the Doctor had simply shrugged, leading the three of them down the hallway towards the ICU. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Towards Brittany.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Santana could feel Sam’s eyes burning into her, and in any other circumstance she might’ve revelled in the way he’d been left behind in the waiting room like an old discarded magazine while she got to pass through as part of the Pierce family. But in that moment, she didn’t find herself thinking about him at all. This wasn’t about either of them, or their fight over Brittany. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Who cared about any of that when a life was still on the line?</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> ______________________________________________________________________________</span>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Maybe it’s not real.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Santana doesn’t care.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">It’s all she’s got.</span>
</p><p class="p1"> </p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0003"><h2>3. My Love Waits There</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p class="p1"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">It’s not fair, this thing she has with Brittany.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">It’s all-consuming. It’s a near-obsessive need Santana can’t shake. She was supposed to go to New York to find herself, but Santana never realised she was lost until Brittany pointed it out. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">As far as Santana was concerned, she had found herself the minute she laid eyes on the bright-eyed blonde dancer in freshman year, who captured her heart one summer at cheer camp and never gave it back. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Finding yourself in New York is great in theory, but Santana’s here now and she has no idea what the fuck it is that she’s meant to be looking for. Brittany has been by her side for so long that living life without her took months to figure out. She’s still not quite got a handle on <em>enjoying </em>it, either.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">That can’t be healthy.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">So the walls have to be up, now that Brittany has exploded back into her life in the most dreaded of ways. She can’t let her back in, or she’ll be back where she started.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Except Brittany almost died, and she hasn’t woken up yet.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Brittany almost died and Santana was miles and miles away. All because of some silly idea they both had about Santana needing to grab life by the balls and conquer the world on her own for a change.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Brittany almost died and their last interaction would’ve been a text message.</span>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">It’s not fair.</span>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> <b>______________________________________________________________________________</b> </span>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> <em>4:30am</em> </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"><em>PillowPrincess: We’re all going home to get some sleep</em> </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> <em>PillowPrincess: I’ll be back soon.</em> </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"><em>4:35am</em> </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> <em> Boobs: Okay.</em> </span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <em>10:15am</em>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> <em>BlockedCaller: Quinn just told me the good news</em> </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> <em>BlockedCaller: Such a relief</em> </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> <em>BlockedCaller: Hope you’re doing okay x</em> </span>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> <em>12:22pm</em> </span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <em>TopBitch#2: Give her my love when she wakes up</em>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> <em> 12:53pm</em> </span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <em>TopBitch#1: Don’t jinx it please</em>
</p><p class="p2">
  <em>12:54pm</em>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> <em>TopBitch#2: Have faith girl. She’ll wake up x</em> </span>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> <em>4:00pm</em> </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> <em>PillowPrincess: On my way, grabbing food.</em> </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> <em>PillowPrincess: You eating these days?</em> </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> <em> 4:15pm</em> </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> <em> Boobs: Not hungry.</em> </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> <em>4:16pm</em> </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> <em>PillowPrincess: Shut up.</em> </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> <em>PillowPrincess: I’ll bring you something.</em> </span>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Santana collapsed further into the chair at Brittany’s bedside, wincing as her back cracked against the hard plastic surface. She’d been awake for over twenty-four hours, and her whole body ached. Hospital furniture was hardly built for comfort.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">They’d moved Brittany out of the ICU an hour ago and into a private room. That alone had been enough for Santana to talk Whitney and Pierce into finally getting some rest, though it still took some convincing before they agreed. They’d encouraged her to do the same, and she’d lied well enough for them to be satisfied she’d at least<em> try. </em>The pair were currently resting against the small trundle bed in the corner of the room, but Santana had never been more awake. There was no way she’d be sleeping yet, she wasn’t even sure she could. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Not until Brittany woke up.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Propping an elbow on the side of Brittany’s bed, Santana watched the blonde sleep. She was so peaceful, even now. In a somewhat terrible way, it reminded Santana of all those times growing up when Brittany had been the calm in the middle of whatever storm they were facing. Santana and Quinn were two sides of the same coin, always quick to enrage at any given opportunity. Never Brittany, though. Sure, she had her own peculiar brand of bite. But Brittany had a brightness about her that helped her get away with it more often. She balanced them out on even the darkest of days. It was only fitting that she’d be doing the same thing now: making Santana feel at peace with her peace, even while unconscious.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Santana shuffled the chair forward to rest her chest against the side of the bed, her body desperate for contact with some sort of surface that wasn’t rock solid. Brittany’s heart rate monitor had been the only sound in an otherwise silent room, and Santana allowed herself to settle into the steady rhythm of a heartbeat that had once lulled her to sleep on even the most restless of nights. Now, it was keeping her awake; terrified of missing the moment it might stop forever.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Apparently, her body hadn’t got the memo though, and was content falling back into old habits from their happier high school days. She’d only been listening to the sound for a few minutes before her eyes drifted shut, entirely against her will.</span>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> <em>5:15pm</em> </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> <em>PillowPrincess: I’m outside</em> </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> <em>PillowPrincess: Come eat</em> </span>
</p><p class="p1"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> <em>5:30pm</em> </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> <em>PillowPrincess: Food is getting cold</em> </span>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> <em>5:45pm</em> </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> <em>PillowPrincess: Santana?</em> </span>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> <em>6:00pm</em> </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> <em>PillowPrincess: Everything okay?</em> </span>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">When Santana woke, it was to the tentative stroke of a warm hand against her cheek. Her face was pressed into the edge of Brittany’s mattress, squashed into the scratchy material of hospital sheets. The soft sensation against her cheek was matched by a similar one, stroking gentle circles into the palm of her hand. A hand that had previously been holding- </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Brittany.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Santana jolted upright, and there she was. Watching. Brittany’s eyes were hooded slightly, still high from all the pain medication, but a soft smile adorned her features in spite of it all. She held onto Santana’s hand like it was some sort of life raft, but from the glowing ache in her own chest Santana was certain it was actually Brittany who was sustaining her right now. Brittany was awake. High as a kite, but <em>awake.</em></span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Hi,” Santana breathed, ignoring the familiar sting of tears as they filled her eyes for the millionth time that day. She grazed her lips softly over Brittany’s knuckles; an action so subconscious she barely registered what she’d done until after it was over.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Brittany’s only response had been a fragile whisper, but there nonetheless, “Hi.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">If Brittany’s smile was the sun, then her voice was the rain after seasons of drought. Santana gasped, overwhelmed by the sheer relief of hearing a sound she’d only hours ago feared may be lost to the world for good. There was a large part of her that registered the presence of Brittany’s parents in the room and knew she should wake them up for this; that <em>wanted </em>to wake them up for it. She just needed to be selfish, and take a few more seconds of her own first. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">In case that was all she got.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Brittany’s hand was trembling in hers, weak from all her body had been through, but Santana could feel the other girl squeezing her fingertips gently anyway. The blonde breathed in, wincing as the air reached her lungs. It pained Santana to see her in such a state, but all she could do was hold on tighter and hope that was enough. Even if it wasn’t.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“I’m sorry I didn’t text you back,” Brittany sniffed.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Santana sobbed then; a wet, snotty, reckless sob, because only Brittany would think to apologise for something like that in the wake of all that had happened. It was the kind of sob she’d laugh at someone like Rachel Berry over, because it was weak and pathetic and so over the top that no one needed to see it. It was also the kind of sob, she supposed, that she had no right to let out anymore. Because Brittany wasn’t hers, and she didn't get to feel like this. That wasn’t how the break-up game worked.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">But then Brittany was reaching out to caress the back of her neck, tugging her inward until her head rested against the blonde’s thigh, and Santana didn’t care so much about the rules anymore. She cried relentlessly into the bedsheets, letting Brittany run her fingers through Santana’s hair, stroking her scalp soothingly as if Santana was the one whose life had just been in mortal danger. For one fleeting moment, Santana got to pretend Brittany was still hers. To feel what she needed to feel. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Eventually, she gathered herself enough to pull back, because playing pretend was for kids and Santana had done a lot of growing up lately. She wiped at her eyes, stifling a teary gasp to look at her girl-… ex-girlfriend, properly again. But all she found was Brittany, grinning shyly at her with tears in her own eyes, and Santana felt what little resolve she had dwindling away into nothing.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“You scared me,” Santana rasped, still clutching tightly to Brittany’s hand, “I thought-”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"><b><em>“</em></b>I keep telling you not to do that,” Brittany croaked teasingly, and Santana let out a wet laugh; all sniffles and ugly tears. Brittany simply squeezed her hand tighter, conveying a thousand words with a single touch. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">They weren’t speaking loudly, but Santana’s shameless blubbering had been enough to wake Whitney, who slapped Pierce’s shoulder so hard at the sight of Brittany being conscious that he fell off the bed in shock. The next hour was spent as a family while they waited for Brittany’s surgeon, Doctor Michaels, to update them on Brittany’s condition. It had apparently been a forgone conclusion from all involved, including Brittany, that Santana would be staying at her side throughout all of it. She didn’t want to think about what that meant when they were… whatever they were now. Santana knew that holding onto such foolish delusions of grandeur in a time like this would only be a recipe for heartbreak later on, once the drugs wore off and Brittany came to her senses.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">She focused on the facts:</span>
</p>
<ol class="ol1">
<li class="li1"><span class="s1">For the most part, Brittany had been lucky. The bullet had missed all her major organs.</span></li>
<li class="li1"><span class="s1">Aside from a couple of cracked ribs and a lifetime of trauma, most of the damage had been repaired during surgery.</span></li>
<li class="li1"><span class="s1">Doctor Michaels wanted Brittany to stay for a few days so they could monitor her closely, but overall the outlook was good. </span></li>
<li class="li1"><span class="s1">She was going to be okay.</span></li>
</ol><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Shortly after Doctor Michaels had left, a knock at the door interrupted them, and Santana realised her bubble had burst. Because ‘okay’ meant that ordinary visitors were allowed in now too, and there was no one more ordinary than Sam Evans. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">He stood in the doorway, glancing between her hand and Brittany’s with that angry infant look he’d inherited when Finn handed the mantle of dumb alpha male over to him after graduation last year. If Brittany noticed his discomfort, she didn’t make it known. In fact, Santana thought Brittany might actually be gripping her hand tighter at the sight of him.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Maybe that was wishful thinking. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">It must’ve been, because when Sam raced over to her side, Brittany fell into his embrace and it was like Santana wasn’t there at all. It was a stark reminder of why she’d left Lima in the first place, and Santana quickly excused herself to find Quinn before she found something sharp to stab Sam with instead. She wasn’t sure if Brittany noticed her go, which hurt a lot more than it was allowed to.</span>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> <em> 7:30pm</em></span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <em>Boobs: She’s awake. Where are you?</em>
</p><p class="p2">
  <em>7:30pm</em>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> <em>PillowPrincess: Where do you think? </em> </span>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Santana arrived at the ambulance bay to find a pre-lit cigarette dangling from Quinn’s hand in offering. She took it gladly, inhaling it like some sort of junkie who’d been deprived of their fix for months on end. What she hadn’t expected, though, was to find Sue Sylvester seated a few feet away, dodging clouds of smoke in disgust as they drifted in her direction. Santana could only assume she’d sat there deliberately to make a point.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“How long’s she been there?” Santana whispered to Quinn.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Quinn barely flinched, “Twenty minutes. She was looking for you.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">It seemed that Quinn, unlike Santana, was indifferent to their former cheer coach’s presence despite the fact she was staring at both of them like they’d just destroyed one of her prized possessions. If you believed her, about the two of them being her favourites, Santana supposed that was technically true. Smoking kills, right?</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“I’m so not in the mood for this,” Santana blew a smoke ring, staring Sue down the entire time; revelling in the way the other woman’s contempt grew with every exhalation, “What do you want?”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Sue stood up, marching purposefully towards them both, “Q, you’re dismissed.” </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Quinn scoffed, staying put, “It doesn’t work like that anymore.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">The pair stood firm, cigarettes in hand, pretending not to notice the intense glare being directed at them as part of an unspoken agreement that they’d be winning the waiting game they hadn’t agreed to play in the first place. It didn’t take long.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Okay then,” Sue reneged, “I didn’t want Quinn here because I thought it might be a little awkward to talk about your ex in front of your new girlfriend.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“We’re not dating,” Quinn interrupted, scandalised by the idea. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Santana whirled to face her, “What? I’m not good enough for you, Quinn?”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Okay we are <em>not </em>going over this again.” </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Before they could argue any further, because Santana <em>had </em>been ready and willing to fight about it, Sue pulled out a long piece of folded toilet paper from her tracksuit pocket. It was an odd enough manoeuvre to shut the both of them up fairly quickly.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Sandbags,” Sue instructed, “Please take the toilet paper.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Frowning in disgust, Santana stepped back, “I’m not touching that.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">It was no use though, because Sue Sylvester hadn’t been <em>asking</em>. She stepped forward and shoved the paper in Santana’s hand before either girl could stop her. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“It’s a message from Brittany,” Sue explained, anticipating Santana’s rage before it surfaced, “She kept saying your name while I was writing it down, so I assumed it was for you rather than that idiot Finn knock-off with marshmallows for lips.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Santana hesitated, looking to Quinn for some sort of guidance, but the other girl simply shrugged. They both knew what it meant that Brittany had been thinking of her in what could’ve been her final moments, Santana just wasn’t ready to acknowledge it. Besides, maybe the paper said ‘fuck you’ or something. She couldn’t be sure yet.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Thank you,” Santana cleared her throat, and all three of them knew she wasn’t just talking about the note. None of them were warm enough people to get all mushy about it, but one fact was clear as day, and it was pretty much the only reason Quinn and Santana were tolerating the other woman’s presence right now.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Sue Sylvester had saved Brittany’s life.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">With her signature finger guns, Sue had simply winked back at them, “No problem Sandbags. Hope it makes more sense to you than it did to me.” </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">She walked away, muttering loudly to herself as she went, “Kid’s always been a whack job, not enough brain cells to string together a coherent sentence half the time.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Then it was back to Quinn and Santana, standing awkwardly with a piece of toilet paper containing the answer to a question no one had thought to ask.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Brittany’s final thoughts.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">They were for her?</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Well,” Quinn nudged, “Are you going to read it?”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Santana supposed she probably should. She unravelled the toilet paper with shaky hands, and realised that perhaps she had been foolish to assume that the length of the material would be any indication as to what she’d find inside. After all, Brittany had literally been bleeding out on the floor at the time. It’s not like she could’ve drafted an essay or anything. Santana unfolded sheets upon sheets of paper, and for a brief moment considered it might’ve actually been some elaborate prank Sue was pulling on her as revenge for not accepting her offer to take over the Cheerios, because all of the paper seemed to be blank. Finally, though, she reached the part with the words on it. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Two words, to be exact. They were scrawled in black pen in Sue’s curly handwriting, waiting patiently for the opportunity to turn Santana’s world upside down. </span>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> <em>Proudly so.</em> </span>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“I have to go,” Santana stammered. She scrunched the paper up, feet carrying her back inside the hospital without permission before Quinn could get another word in.</span>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> <em>8:00pm</em> </span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <em>BlockedCaller: Is it too early to ask when you’re coming home?</em>
</p><p class="p2">
  <em>BlockedCaller: I keep messing up my smoky eye :(</em>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> <em> 8:05pm</em> </span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <em>Santana Lopez: I hate you sometimes.</em>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> <em>8:10pm</em> </span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <em>BlockedCaller: Sorry, you’re right that was insensitive</em>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p2">
  <em>8:20pm</em>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> <em>BlockedCaller: I don’t suppose there’s a Youtube tutorial you could recommend? </em> </span>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">The walk back to Brittany’s room was terrifying. Santana was sure she passed Tina and Artie in the hall, but maybe they’d been figments of her imagination. Who could say? Either way, she hadn’t said hello. The toilet paper was balled up loosely her fist as she walked, and Santana briefly wondered how it might look to those around her that she was carrying a heap of toilet paper around a hospital for no apparent reason. On the other hand, she didn’t particularly care. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">It was crazy, really, to be walking back into the lion’s den that was Brittany’s room where Trouty Mouth would surely still be throwing his weight around. Every instinct she had was telling her to leave; to go back to New York and forget any of this ever happened. Because ‘<em>proudly so’</em> didn’t mean <em>‘I’m yours,’ </em>or <em>‘I love you.’ </em>If that’s what Brittany meant, she would’ve just said it. She’d always been pretty good at getting straight to the point. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">No, ‘<em>proudly so’</em> had been a bittersweet reassurance, a way to soften the blow, when Santana had put her heart on the line for the first time ever, only to be rejected for Artie Abrams of all people. Back then, it had loosely translated as, ‘<em>If there’s no one else, then sure. I guess.’ </em></span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"><em>‘Proudly so’ </em>was not, in any way, shape or form, an ‘<em>I love you.’</em></span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">It was also a terribly confusing choice of last words.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">So why the hell had Brittany asked Sue to write it down in that bathroom?</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Santana had to find out.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">She arrived to find Brittany and Sam almost exactly how she left them, and fought off the conflicting urges to both attack Sam, and run away from him, because neither would get her what she wanted right now. Sam was half-kneeling on the bed, one arm slung across Brittany’s shoulder, and Santana couldn’t help but notice how uncomfortable the blonde looked. She reminded herself it probably had everything to do with the fact that Brittany had just been <em>shot, </em>and nothing to do with wanting to escape from Trouty’s gross flipper hands. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">When Santana cleared her throat from the doorway, Sam looked up at her like she was a fly that needed to be swatted away. She didn’t care though. In the palm of her hand was sufficient proof that she had just as much right to be here as he did, even if she had no idea what capacity that was meant to be in yet. Because the words may not have made total sense, but the fact remained that <em>she </em>was the one with the toilet paper, not him. If it weren’t such a weird analogy, she may have even rubbed it in his face a little bit. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“There you are,” Brittany beamed, ignoring the way Sam gripped her possessively as she spoke, “I was worried you’d gone already.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Santana pursed her lips, because the very idea of giving away anything while they were being watched by someone whose importance in Brittany’s life had only come to fruition during Santana’s absence from it, would be too much. She wouldn’t show her hand like that.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Not yet,” Santana shrugged as casually as she possibly could, “I was with Quinn.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Oh,” Brittany’s face fell into something vaguely resembling jealousy, and Santana wasn’t sure what to make of it. The blonde looked over to Trouty Mouth, nudging him gently off the bed despite his obvious reluctance to go anywhere, “Sam, can you give us a minute?” </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Then, there were two.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Brittany looked at her with bright eyes, opening her mouth slowly as if preparing to say something. But Santana got in first.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“I spoke to Sue,” it slipped out of her mouth before she could stop herself.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">It mustn’t have been what Brittany was expecting, because her eyes clouded over and she took a moment to process the words, before something close to a realisation seemed to strike her still-groggy brain. Her mouth parted in a gentle ‘o’ shape and Santana took that as her opportunity to move further into the room, closing the door behind her. She unfolded the paper carefully, walking towards the bed and offering it up to Brittany. Santana waited patiently, but Brittany never took it. So, either she already knew what Sue had written, or she didn’t care.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">One of those options felt unequivocally worse than the other.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Interesting way to say goodbye, Britt,” Santana intended for it to come out as a laugh, but the sound resembled more of a strangled sob in the end.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Brittany’s eyes shot up to meet her own, and Santana froze under the weight of the other girl’s gaze. It was as if they were characters in a film, placed on pause so the audience could go grab another snack from the fridge or something. Except, they weren’t. They were very much real, and would very much both remain in a state of flux until Brittany found it within her to un-pause them.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Santana,” Brittany breathed, her voice laced with sympathy in a way that only ever meant one thing. The letdown was on the way.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Santana didn’t want to hear it. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“It’s okay,” she did her best to reassure, even if part of her heart was breaking all over again, “I get it, extreme blood loss probably screws a person’s head up.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“I almost died and you were all I could think about, Santana,” Brittany cut her off angrily, “Nothing about that is okay.” </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">The admission echoed throughout the empty room, threatening to swallow them both whole. Santana could’ve sworn she saw a nurse stop as she was walking by, and wondered how obvious it was to outsiders that they were inadvertently observing a moment of such gravitas. Santana had watched Brittany carefully, waiting for the inevitable penny to drop. She refused to find hope in the other girl’s words. She wouldn’t do that to herself, not when there was always a catch. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">In this case, it was a very big catch. Santana supposed some fisherman may even call it a catch of the day, if they had a strong enough rod to reel him in with.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Sam Evans.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Brittany’s boyfriend.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">But then Brittany’s heart rate monitor sped up, and Santana forgot all about their problems, including the unmoving wall between them that was Trouty Mouth. She rushed forward to grab the other girl’s hand.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Are you okay?” she asked hurriedly, “Should I call a nurse?”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“No, it’s fine,” Brittany shook her head, “I’m just nervous.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Why?” Santana frowned. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Brittany straightened up, using her free hand to wipe away a stray tear. Her other hand spread against Santana’s palm, interlacing their fingers together with that particular brand of softness only Brittany had ever shown towards her. But the blonde wasn’t really there. Her eyes darted around the room, staring at anything and everything that wasn’t Santana, for an excruciatingly long minute. When Brittany finally spoke, it was through gritted teeth; each word choked out of a heaving chest.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Because I have to tell you to leave again and I don’t want to.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Santana faltered. She should’ve known that it would come to this. What else had she expected when she walked into the room with that dumb piece of paper in her hand? Sure, maybe it told her how Brittany really felt about her, but it didn’t change the fact that Santana was in New York, and Brittany was in Lima. They’d tried long distance, and it hadn’t worked. Santana had ended it before they destroyed each other, because maybe she could eventually learn to live without her girlfriend, but losing her best friend at the same time would’ve been a fate worse than death; especially when that best friend was Brittany.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">The simple fact was that Santana could tell herself until the end of time that Brittany had moved on with Sam, and that’s why they weren’t together anymore, but that would be rewriting history. The last 48 hours had made it impossible to ignore the undeniable truth that Brittany was just as much hers as she’d always been. Sure, Brittany might’ve been rejecting her again, and that hurt. Except, this time neither of them could pretend it was about Sam Evans; even if the blonde crawled straight back into his arms the minute Santana walked out the door.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">It would never be that simple for them.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">She and Brittany may have broken up, but they weren’t like Kurt and Blaine, whose relationship had fallen victim to cheating; torn apart by jealousy and distrust. Nor were they like Finn and Rachel, who were never a match for each other but thought they were because they were in the right place at the right time; until they weren’t and the glaring holes in their relationship became too obvious to ignore. Santana and Brittany weren’t like them. They’d broken up for the exact same reason they’d gotten together in the first place.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Because they loved each other.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">When Santana’s face fell, Brittany pressed her lips into a sad, knowing smile. As always, Brittany had arrived at the inevitable conclusion long before Santana had.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“I still have to go back to New York,” Santana rasped, conceding defeat.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">The blonde nodded solemnly, pouting like a child who’d just been told Santa isn’t real. Or maybe even a <em>Brittany </em>who’d just been told Santa isn’t real. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Yeah, you do.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">They stood there in silence, and Santana elected to ignore the fact that the nurse who appeared at the window earlier now seemed to be watching them avidly with several of her colleagues. It was stupid, really. Up until the minute Sue shoved that piece of toilet paper into her hand, it’d been so easy for Santana to pretend she’d simply been forgotten about, reduced to being Brittany’s best friend in name only. Now, there was this ugly unspoken agreement between them that made it so much harder to move on. Two words on a piece of toilet paper, and all of Santana’s hard work had been thrown out the window.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Two words that said ‘I’d be with you if the timing was right.’</span>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> <em>Proudly so.</em> </span>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Two words that said, ‘If given the choice, I’d be with you over someone else.’</span>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> <em>Proudly so.</em> </span>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Two words that said ‘You’re it for me, but not right now. So I’ll let you go and watch you grow into who you’re meant to be, even if it means losing you forever.’</span>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> <em>Proudly so. </em> </span>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">It was a lot, and neither of them needed words to acknowledge how truly fucked they were. Because this changed nothing, and it changed everything. Now, amid all the heartache and loneliness, there was the tiniest shred of hope.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Hope could be dangerous.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Can you stay a little while longer?” Brittany whispered, and Santana swallowed the bitter taste in her mouth that came about at the thought of ever leaving her.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">She sat down in the chair next to the bed, not stupid enough to pull a Sam and risk hurting Brittany by sitting on the bed with her (however much she wanted to).</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“I guess an hour or two wouldn’t hurt,” she smiled, taking the other girl’s hand in hers again.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Brittany twirled their fingers together reverently, “I’ll take what I can get.”</span>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> <em>9:30pm</em></span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <em>Santana Lopez: Best smoky eye tutorial on the internet:</em>
</p><p class="p2"><em>Santana Lopez: </em> <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=dQw4w9WgXcQ"> <span class="s3">https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=dQw4w9WgXcQ</span></a></p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> <em>9:31pm</em> </span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <em>BlockedCaller: You’re the best!</em>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> <em>9:32pm</em> </span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <em>BlockedCaller: UGH. Why are you like this?</em>
</p><p class="p2">
  <em>9:40pm</em>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> <em> Santana Lopez: ;)</em> </span>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Two hours turned into three then four, before the nosy nurse from earlier appeared and told Santana she had to leave. Apparently visiting hours aren’t quite as long for patients who are doing better, which probably explained why Sam never reappeared after ‘giving them a minute’ a few hours ago. It was bittersweet, really. She had to leave, because Brittany was better. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">How cruel the world could be. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">The nurse left them to say their goodbyes, and Santana wasn’t really sure how to go about it. She hesitated, then Brittany reached her arms out impatiently like a toddler waiting to be picked up. Santana chuckled, leaning in for a hug. They held each other for a little bit too long, until Santana felt Brittany shifting away and shuffled back, resting their foreheads together. The pair breathed each other in, far too aware this could be the last time they ever did so.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Santana wasn’t sure who started the kiss. One minute, she was pulling away and the next Brittany’s lips were on hers. It was a soft, chaste kiss, similar to the last time when Santana had said goodbye to her in the auditorium, except this time Brittany’s lips lingered and Santana felt herself inexplicably drawn in again.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">She caught herself just in time, because this couldn’t be happening. Not now. Maybe not ever, depending on where their lives ended up taking them next. Santana refused to turn them back into people who cheated so they could be together. They both deserved better than that now. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Britt,” Santana sighed, shaking her head gently.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“I know,” Brittany whispered, “I just needed to remember. I was alone in that bathroom, and I couldn’t remember-”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">The blonde trailed off, eyes watering, and Santana felt her heart shattering into a million pieces. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Steeling herself, Santana settled for a goodbye that was real, and tangible. One that would be far easier for her to get out than all the other words that were swirling around in her head, “I’ll text you when I get home, okay?” </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Okay.”</span>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> <em>11:45pm</em> </span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <em>PillowPrincess: Are you going to tell me what was on that piece of paper before you run off back to New York?</em>
</p><p class="p2">
  <em>11:46pm</em>
</p><p class="p2">
  <em>Boobs: No</em>
</p><p class="p2">
  <em>11:47pm</em>
</p><p class="p2">
  <em>PillowPrincess: You’re already on the train, aren’t you?</em>
</p><p class="p2">
  <em>11:48pm</em>
</p><p class="p2">
  <em>Boobs: Yes</em>
</p><p class="p2">
  <em>11:49pm</em>
</p><p class="p2">
  <em>PillowPrincess: Unbelievable.</em>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">It was the early hours of the morning before Santana made it back to the loft. She’d left Kurt back in Lima so he could ‘not have sex’ with Blaine for one more night. It was nice having the train ride to herself, actually. It gave her time to think.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Thinking wasn’t always a good thing.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">She’d felt like shit ever since she left the hospital. Her relationship with Brittany had never been so certainly uncertain. Now, it wasn’t a matter of <em>if </em>they would get back together, but when. Except, the when might actually be never, because <em>‘proudly so’</em> was the kind of loaded statement that didn’t necessarily guarantee a happy ending. Santana slid the loft door shut, touching an absent finger to her lips. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Brittany had kissed her.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Brittany had kissed her because she wanted to remember what it felt like.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Fuck.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Santana opened up the curtain to Rachel’s room before she even realised what she was doing. Rachel sprang up from her sleep, jaw hanging open like she’d just been told Barbra was outside waiting to perform a duet with her. Wordlessly slipping her shoes and jacket off, Santana flopped onto the mattress and buried herself under the covers, fully aware Rachel was waiting for an explanation, but unwilling to give one.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">When Rachel reluctantly settled back down onto the bed, Santana rolled in closer until her head was pillowed against the other girl’s chest, clinging to her like a teddy bear. Snuggling with Rachel was hardly her first choice when it came to comfort, but Kurt wasn’t home and Quinn was miles away, so she’d take whatever warmth she could get. Rachel stiffened momentarily, apparently just as surprised to receive the cuddle as Santana was to have found herself instigating it. Then, she hesitantly placed her arms around Santana’s shoulders in an awkward, entirely Berry-like attempt at something resembling reassurance.</span>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Tell no one, Berry.”</span>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Understood.”</span>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">______________________________________________________________________________</span>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">It’s not fair. </span>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">It just <em>is.</em></span>
</p><p class="p1"> </p><p class="p1"> </p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0004"><h2>4. When I Come Home to You</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Happy New Year! Sorry to those of you who were eagerly awaiting an update on this - the holidays got away from me! This chapter ended up being longer than I wanted so I've split it into two, meaning there's now a bonus chapter coming out next week. Enjoy :)</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p class="p1"> </p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">It’s complicated, what she has with Brittany.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Actually, screw that. </span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Santana's sick of talking about her life like it's some sad old poem, because it's not. </span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">It's more like an assortment of random words, thrown together in the hope that something eventually sticks.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Right now, there’s not a single word in the English dictionary that could accurately and concisely sum up her relationship with Brittany S. Pierce.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1"> </p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Because only days after Santana returned to New York, Brittany disappeared from the hospital and Santana was jumping on the first train back to Lima in order to find her.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">'Complicated' doesn’t even begin to cover it.</span>
</p>
<p class="p2"> </p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">______________________________________________________________________________</span>
</p>
<p class="p2"> </p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> <em> 7:05am</em> </span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> <em> Boobs: Are you still there? What’s happening?</em> </span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> <em>7:06am</em> </span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> <em>PillowPrincess: She’s just… gone.</em> </span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> <em>PillowPrincess: They’ve put an alert out.</em> </span>
</p>
<p class="p2">
  <em>7:07am</em>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> <em> Boobs: How does a hospital lose a patient?</em> </span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> <em>7:10am</em> </span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> <em>PillowPrincess: They had her in a chair ready to go for scans</em> </span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> <em>PillowPrincess: She must’ve distracted them and wheeled away somehow</em> </span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> <em>7:11am</em> </span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> <em> Boobs: Ugh.</em> </span>
</p>
<p class="p2"> </p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">When Santana arrived at the hospital she made a beeline for Brittany’s room, breezing past the nurses at the front desk before they could stop to ask who she was. She arrived in the outside hallway to find Pierce and Whitney, talking to Dr. Michaels. All three of them looked completely lost.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Hi, sweetie,” Whitney tugged Santana into a hug, “You came back.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Santana squeezed Whitney tightly, before pulling back, “Of course. Still no sign of her?”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Whitney and Pierce both shook their heads.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“What happened?” Santana asked.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">It was then that Dr. Michaels, in all her ludicrous incompetence, stepped in. “I was concerned about some of Brittany’s post-op test results. We were going to run a CT to ensure there was no sign of additional trauma or bleeding, but she disappeared before we could get her upstairs.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Wait, you mean you didn’t run a CT <em>before</em> the surgery?” Sure, Santana wasn’t a doctor. But she was raised by one, and that stuff was like… 101.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“There wasn’t time when Brittany was admitted because the blood loss was too severe. We couldn’t have known-”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Shhh.” Santana scowled at the woman, deciding she was done talking to idiots, “No more.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Had Brittany not been missing, perhaps Santana would’ve panicked over the fact that there was now a chance Brittany’s life might be taken at random by some sort of brain bleed, but in that moment it only served as motivation to find her even sooner. She’d already been gone for hours. </span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">What if something happened while she was on her own?</span>
</p>
<p class="p1"> </p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> <em>12:05pm</em></span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> <em> Santana: Marco?</em> </span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> <em>12:06pm</em> </span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> <em>BrittBritt: I’m not playing.</em> </span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> <em>BrittBritt: You’ll tell the others.</em> </span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> <em> 12:07pm</em> </span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> <em> Santana: Screw the others.</em> </span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> <em> Santana: I wanna come say hello.</em> </span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> <em>12:08pm</em> </span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> <em>BrittBritt: You’re back in Lima?</em> </span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> <em> 12:09pm</em> </span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> <em> Santana: Yeah.</em> </span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> <em> Santana: Marco?</em> </span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> <em>12:15pm</em> </span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> <em>BrittBritt: Polo.</em> </span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> <em>BrittBritt: [shared her location]</em> </span>
</p>
<p class="p2"> </p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Within ten minutes Santana had arrived at the back of a building near the outermost hospital carpark. Brittany was tucked behind a large tree, sulking in her wheelchair. </span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"><em>“</em>There you are,” Santana drawled, tucking her phone back into her pocket, “Anyone would think you were hiding from us or something.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Brittany huffed, entirely unamused. “I thought I told you to go home.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“I’ll go home when you get a CT.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“I don’t want a CT.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“And I don’t want you to die of a traumatic brain injury.” Santana quipped, “Help me out here.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">At the comment, Brittany pouted like a petulant child. Santana kneeled down, tucking a stray piece of hair behind the other girl’s ear in order to see her properly. She stroked Brittany’s cheek, before moving her hand up to smooth out the frown lines on her forehead.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“What’s this about? You love weird medical tests.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“They think my brain is broken because I can’t count to ten without getting distracted.” Brittany scrunched her face up even more, “If they test me they’ll realise my brain is fine, then they’ll call me stupid. That’s bullying, Santana, and I won’t tolerate it.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Santana contemplated Brittany’s response, twirling a piece of blonde hair around her finger as she did so. While it was true that Brittany usually only made it to seven or eight before she got distracted, it was only because she had better stuff to occupy her brain with. Not because she was stupid. Running away seemed like an overreaction, especially for Brittany.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Something else had to be up.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“<em>And?</em>” Santana probed, “What else?”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">When she felt Brittany stiffen in front of her, Santana knew her gut instinct had been right.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“And… I’m worried,” Brittany hesitated, “That if they do it, they might find out about my legs.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Santana raised a curious eyebrow, dutifully ignoring the dread slowly filtering into the pit of her stomach as her mind began tossing out a few of the worst possible scenarios it could think of. “What about your legs?”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“I can’t feel them.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p2"> </p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> <em>12:45pm</em> </span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> <em>PillowPrincess: Did you find her?</em> </span>
</p>
<p class="p2">
  <em>12:46pm</em>
</p>
<p class="p2">
  <em>Boobs: Yes. We’re on the way back</em>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> <em> Boobs: It’s bad, Quinn.</em> </span>
</p>
<p class="p1"> </p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Santana wheeled Brittany back into the hospital in record time. She was doing her best not to panic, but it was hard not to. Apparently Brittany hadn’t been able to move her legs since she woke up, but she thought it was the drugs so she didn’t say anything. Then as they gradually wore off, she got scared, panicking completely at the first mention of more damage. With Santana gone and Sam apparently AWOL, no one had picked up on anything being wrong until she’d disappeared.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Dr. Michaels and the Pierces were waiting with Quinn in the empty hospital room when Santana and Brittany arrived back. To say they looked relieved was an understatement.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Brittany,” Quinn greeted her, “We were worried-”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Santana cut the girl off, unable to quell the panic any longer. “We need a doctor in here.” Then, looked to Dr. Michaels scathingly, “Not you. A real one. Get me the Head of Neuro.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Dr. Michaels looked affronted, but Santana didn’t care. The woman folded her arms defensively, “Dr. Lopez is a very busy man, I can’t-”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“I’m sure he’ll find the time for his <em>daughter</em>,” Santana clapped back, not at all phased by how quickly the woman recoiled in shock. “Yeah. Off you go. Thanks.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Dr. Michaels nodded, reluctantly leaving to do as she was told. Santana felt Brittany squeeze her hand from where it rested on the back of the wheelchair, and looked down to find a pair of terrified eyes watching her. </span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Ignoring the confused looks from Quinn and Brittany’s parents, Santana leaned in to press a firm kiss against the blonde’s cheek; Sam Evans be damned. He wasn’t even <em>here </em>anyway.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“It’ll be okay,” she promised. </span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">And it would.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">It had to be.</span>
</p>
<p class="p2"> </p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">2<em>:30pm</em></span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> <em>Papi: You paged me?</em> </span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> <em>Papi: Santana, I was in surgery. </em> </span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> 2<em>:31pm</em></span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> <em> Santana: Britt can’t feel her legs.</em> </span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> <em> Santana: Papi they didn’t do a CT.</em> </span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> <em>2:32pm</em> </span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> <em>Papi: Your Brittany?</em> </span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> <em> 2:32pm</em> </span>
</p>
<p class="p2">
  <em>Santana: Yes.</em>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> <em>2:33pm</em> </span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> <em>Papi: I’m on my way.</em> </span>
</p>
<p class="p2"> </p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">To anyone who didn’t know him, Hector Lopez II was a terrifying man. He stood approximately six feet tall, with dark eyes and an even more foreboding presence. For most of Santana’s life, he’d been absent; too busy with work to spend much time with his family outside of special occasions like Christmas, Thanksgiving and graduation. Growing up, Santana had once mistaken the mailman for her Dad, simply because she saw him more often. They were not close, in any sense of the word.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">But when Santana Lopez needed her father, he came without question.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Michaels,” the door swung open, Hector marching in with a team of eager residents in tow, “What have we got?”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">By all accounts, Hector Lopez was a man of great esteem around the hospital. Dr. Michaels straightened up immediately, reeling off Brittany’s chart in a matter of minutes while Santana’s father listened attentively.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">In any other circumstances, Santana might’ve been offended that her own father hadn’t acknowledged her existence yet. But his sole focus was on Brittany, and right now she wouldn’t have it any other way.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“I trust you have since ordered a head and spinal CT,” he quizzed the other woman, who confirmed as much.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Good,” Hector nodded, eyes briefly flicking towards Santana before landing back on his inferior colleague, “I will be taking over this case, you can go.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">No sooner had Hector said it, than had Dr. Michaels promptly fled the room with her tail between her legs. He then turned to Brittany, who was sat upright on the end of the bed, awaiting examination. Santana stood out of the way, watching from the corner and gripping onto Quinn’s hand so hard she was surprised it hadn’t drawn blood yet. </span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Hello Brittany,” Hector smiled warmly, “Maribel has missed you at our Sunday dinners.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">It was enough to coax the first genuine smile out of Brittany since Santana had found her by the tree earlier. The blonde winced as Hector began his examination, picking up her left leg and testing her response to various stimulation points.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Ditto,” Brittany spoke as if engaging in polite conversation over lunch, “I miss that famous Lopez lasagna like crazy.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“So well mannered.” Hector laughed, switching to Brittany’s right leg, “Maribel and I always hoped that would have a positive effect on our daughter, but no such luck.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Dad.” Santana warned, ignoring the way Quinn scoffed quietly beside her.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Hector Lopez, however, was one of the few people in the world who wasn’t the slightest bit afraid of his daughter; mostly because he was one of the people who taught her to how to be scary. He ignored Santana completely, concluding his examination then turning to extend his hand to Whitney and Pierce instead.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“And you must be the Pierces,” he grinned, “Pleasure to finally meet you.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“You too, Dr. Lopez,” Whitney shook his hand, still entirely focused on her daughter.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">It wasn’t exactly how Santana had pictured introducing her Dad to Brittany’s parents, and the very fact they were meeting under such horrible circumstances made Santana feel queasy. Her knees buckled slightly, but all those years training together on the Cheerios had Quinn sensing it immediately, and she had already inched close enough to catch Santana without anyone even noticing she was falling. Quinn’s hand braced her back, stroking soothing circles into Santana's hip with her thumb whilst remaining entirely focused on the scene in front of them. Santana leaned into the touch, stiffening when she noticed Brittany watching them both warily.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">When Hector began to list off all the potential reasons Brittany might not be able to walk, Santana’s panic had only risen further. She took a deep breath in, relaxing when Quinn’s hand shot back into her own; interlacing their fingers and tugging her in close. Brittany’s eyes shot up at the movement, but all Santana could focus on was her Dad’s voice. Right now, he sounded about as angry at Dr. Michaels as Santana was, which felt very validating.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“But you can fix this, right?” Whitney asked. </span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">The question hung in the air, holding within it an infinite number of possibilities each capable of altering their lives forever. Santana caught Brittany’s gaze, silently willing her to remember the promise she’d made earlier.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">It would be okay. </span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">But if Hector Lopez had ever taught Santana anything about life, it was that you shouldn’t make promises you can’t keep. The man straightened, face void of anything other than expertly distanced sympathy.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“I will do everything within my power to help.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">With that, Hector politely excused himself, promising to return once the CT results were in. Santana chased after her father, catching him just outside the room.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Papi.” </span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">She’d meant to say more, but the words all escaped her the minute her father had turned around.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“I can’t promise you anything, <em>mija,</em>” he sighed reluctantly, “You know how it is.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“But she’s,” Santana stuttered, “She’s a dancer.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Her father’s eyes softened, and Santana was certain he understood the overwhelming gravitas of what she was actually trying to say, which didn't really have anything to do with dancing at all. Another thing that Hector Lopez could be, at least to those he loved, was unequivocally <em>kind. </em>He reached forward to give Santana a firm squeeze on the shoulder. It was the only type of comfort he’d ever proven capable of providing; one of understanding, but never reassurance.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Does your Mother know you’re back?” </span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Not yet. I only just got here.” </span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Go back to Brittany,” Hector instructed, “I’ll call her for you.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Thanks Papi.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p2"> </p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> <em>3:30pm</em> </span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> <em>Mami: I’ve made up the bed in your old room</em> </span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> <em>Mami: Do you need me to bring some dinner?</em> </span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> <em>3:40pm</em></span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> <em> Santana: It’s okay, I’m not hungry</em> </span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> <em>5:02pm</em> </span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> <em>Mami: I’ve made a lasagna. Enough for everyone</em> </span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> <em>Mami: I will bring it now.</em> </span>
</p>
<p class="p2"> </p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Shrapnel. </span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">A leftover piece of bullet, lodged into Brittany’s spine. </span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">The surgery was fast-tracked and Santana’s Dad removed the bullet fairly easily, but Brittany’s legs still didn’t work properly. It was like all of the signals in her body were suddenly mismatched and doing whatever they wanted, instead of what they were told. She’d been given a recovery time of somewhere between 12 weeks and never.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Brittany was so upset she didn’t speak to anyone for five days. </span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Not even Santana.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Quinn left after the third, unable to miss anymore classes. Santana didn’t realise how much she’d miss the girl until she was gone. Brittany’s parents had to return to work too, so most days it was just Brittany and Santana, sitting in silence because Brittany was too stubborn to talk about any of it or agree to get help. </span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">If Santana were being honest with herself, it hurt a bit. She’d pretty much always been the exception to Brittany’s rules, so being lumped into the cone of silence with the rest of the peasants really sucked. </span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">She was reading a lot of books to pass the time.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">It was around lunch time on the fifth day when Brittany’s resolved finally wavered. Her voice was quiet as a mouse, but unmistakably there. </span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“You can’t sit here forever.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Santana looked up from her paperback to find Brittany glaring at her. If it weren’t for the fact that she was a self-proclaimed expert in pushing people away, the comment might almost have thrown her off a bit.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">She chose to refocus on her book instead, “Yes I can.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Brittany huffed, rolling away to face the wall, “You can’t.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Just like that, the silence resumed again. Brittany’s attitude was driving Santana crazy, but she refused to show it. At this point, the need to help her best friend through arguably the most difficult challenge either of them had ever faced far outweighed Santana’s own desire to be liked. </span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“I see Quinn finally left,” Brittany spat, “Surprised you’ve managed to survive without her.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">It was bait, but Santana refused to bite.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Santana shrugged, “Yale couldn’t wait forever.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“But New York can?”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Yep.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Brittany was testing her, but Santana was an A student when it came to this stuff. The other girl had pulled out all the stops - telling her to leave, being outright mean, acting unreasonably jealous. Santana wasn’t going to fall for any of it it. New York would still be there when she went back. She could play this game forever.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">When Brittany’s next petulant huff dissolved into a broken plea, Santana knew she’d already won. “Why can’t you just leave me alone?”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">In that one simple question, born from days of silence, Santana heard everything.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">She heard Brittany’s anger; at being left behind, at putting herself through a second senior year, without which she would never have been in that wretched bathroom stall in the first place. </span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">She heard Brittany’s fear; of failure, rejection, and a new normal she hadn’t accepted yet.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">She heard Brittany’s determination not to drag Santana into a fight they might not win.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Most of all, she heard Brittany’s naivety in thinking Santana could possibly stand to be anywhere else.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1"><span class="s1">Santana set her book down, looking Brittany in the eye for what might’ve been the first time all week. She reached out, tentatively linking their pinkies together and not missing the way Brittany’s heart-rate monitor spiked at the contact. </span> <span class="s1">When Santana spoke, it was with purpose and intent. </span></p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“You know why.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Three little words, then Brittany’s walls had come crumbling down around them both. The blonde’s lip quivered; a tell-tale sign that the tears were on their way, “I’m really scared.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Santana sucked in a deep breath. She climbed up onto Brittany’s bed, carefully curling into her side and pulling the blonde into her. Moments later, when Brittany fell apart against her chest, Santana held them both together with quiet reassurances and promises too fragile to be kept. Santana held her there, surer now more than ever that this was exactly where she needed to be.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“We’ll figure this out,” she whispered into Brittany’s hair, “You’re going to be okay.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p2"> </p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> <em>4:00pm</em> </span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> <em>BlockedCaller: So you’re staying in Lima for a while then?</em> </span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> <em> 4:05pm</em> </span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> <em> Santana: Yeah, I can’t leave her like this.</em> </span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> <em>4:06pm</em> </span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> <em>BlockedCaller: Is there anything we can do?</em> </span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> <em> 4:07pm</em> </span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> <em> Santana: Not give up my place in the loft?</em> </span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> <em>4:08pm</em> </span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> <em>BlockedCaller: Santana, you sleep on a couch.</em> </span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> <em>BlockedCaller: Rest assured it will be there when you return.</em> </span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> <em> 4:09pm</em> </span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> <em> Santana: Thanks, Berry.</em> </span>
</p>
<p class="p2"> </p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">In the weeks that followed, Santana slipped rather quickly into the role of designated caregiver for Brittany. She took her to appointments so that Brittany's parents didn’t miss work, helped her get dressed when she needed it, kept her company when no one was home.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Unfortunately, Brittany had just as easily slipped into the role of <em>annoying</em> five year old who hated listening to instructions.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Santana was exhausted. Every day felt like a battle.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Getting Brittany to agree to go to physiotherapy was one of Santana’s more notable triumphs, because it had proven to be even harder than Noah Puckerman at a wet t-shirt contest. Convincing the blonde to actually partake in the exercises was infinitely more difficult. Santana had to resort to bribery before Brittany would even let the therapist touch her, and four weeks later she was still paying the price for it. </span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">That’s where they were now, sitting in the car after cashing in on Santana’s latest promise to buy Brittany a triple-choc chip, double scoop ice cream from a convenience store several miles out from Lima. They’d found the place during the summer after sophomore year, and Brittany maintained it sold the best ice cream in the world. She’d brightened up the minute they got in the car, and if it weren’t for the fact that this was the closest to normal Brittany had acted in weeks, Santana might’ve been a little annoyed they were driving for nearly an hour just to get dessert from a gas station.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“God this is so good,” Brittany moaned. Her tongue was moving agonisingly slowly, licking and sucking at the ice cream in ways that brought Santana back to <em>different</em> memories from that particular summer, “You want some?”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Hell yeah she did.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Um,” Santana cleared her throat, “No thanks. I’m not hungry.” </span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Brittany raised an eyebrow, “You’re never hungry.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">In an instant, Santana’s stomach dropped. <em>Not</em> because she was hungry, but because she was… Not interested in having this conversation. </span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Britt, don’t.” </span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Don’t what?” the blonde licked away the remainder of her ice cream, turning slightly in her seat to face Santana properly, “Notice that you’re starving yourself again?”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“I’m not-”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“It’s really obvious, Santana.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">The car fell silent, and Santana looked down into her lap. So much for Brittany acting normal. </span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Perhaps it was true that she’d fallen into a few old habits lately; habits that she’d pretty much kicked when she left the Cards and didn’t need to look paper thin all the time. But this was different; she had no weight to lose, and she wasn't actively trying to do it. She just also happened to have no appetite. </span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Santana didn’t owe anyone an explanation for that.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">After the silence lingered a little too long, Brittany sighed. “Can we go? Sam said Blaine’s got some crazy plan for regionals and he needs back-up at practice.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">At the mention of his name, Santana bristled. It wasn’t that she was jealous; she’d just noticed that Sam never seemed to be around and a part of her dared to hope it was because it was over, rather than because he was a terrible boyfriend who didn’t stick around when life got difficult. Before Sam had moved in on Brittany, he and Santana had sort of been friends. He never struck her as the kind of guy who’d drop the ball like that. It bothered her that her gut instinct about someone might've been wrong.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“So, Trouty Mouth still exists then?” Santana turned the engine back on, curiosity getting the better of her, “Given how little you’ve mentioned him lately, I thought he must’ve been mistaken for some botox-ridden trophy blonde on his way out of the hospital and swept off to film the flagship season of the Real Housewives of Ohio or something.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Brittany leant her head against the window, pointedly looking away and folding her arms. “I'm not talking until you talk.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p2"> </p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> <em>10:30am</em> </span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> <em>PillowPrincess: How long has it been?</em> </span>
</p>
<p class="p2">
  <em>10:35am</em>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> <em> Boobs: Six days.</em> </span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> <em>10:45am</em> </span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> <em>PillowPrincess: And she hasn’t said a single word to you?</em> </span>
</p>
<p class="p2">
  <em>10:50am</em>
</p>
<p class="p2">
  <em>Boobs: She says thanks when I pick her up from therapy.</em>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> <em>10:55am</em> </span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> <em>PillowPrincess: Haha</em> </span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> <em>PillowPrincess: You’re so screwed.</em> </span>
</p>
<p class="p2"> </p>
<p class="p1"><span class="s1">It took another week before Santana finally caved. Mostly, because putting your life on hold to help someone was a lot easier to justify when they were actually <em>talking </em>to you, and Santana was sick of people treating her like some pathetic little girl who was being stepped on by her ex, even if that was exactly how she felt. She pulled up outside the hospital, waiting for Britt in the disabled parking bay. </span> <span class="s1">Brittany was making good progress, and had mostly moved away from the chair in favour of relying on crutches instead. It meant she got tired really easily, because her upper body couldn't quite support her yet. It also meant that she moved <em>really </em>slowly. </span></p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">After a while, Santana saw her appear at the front entrance with a nurse. Ever since she started giving Santana the silent treatment, Brittany had insisted she wait in the car instead of meeting her inside the hospital. Judging by the fact that she was also refusing to let the nurse help her, Santana guessed she probably had about five minutes before Brittany actually reached the car.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">As Brittany got closer, Santana put on her best smile and jumped out to help.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Hey,” she held her hand out to take Brittany’s bag, tossing it in the back seat, “How’d it go?”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Nope.” Brittany shook her head, frowning even as she allowed Santana to guide her into the passenger seat, “I told you-” </span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Santana rolled her eyes, “No talking. Yeah, I know.” </span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">She clicked the passenger door shut, folding down the crutches to fit them in the back. As soon as Brittany was out of earshot, the nurse caught her by the arm. </span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Dr. Wilson has requested that Brittany no longer attend his sessions unaccompanied,” she spoke politely.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">While Santana had her suspicions as to why Brittany’s physiotherapist had made such a request, she felt the need to ask anyway, “How come?”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“She’s refusing to do any new exercises. He thinks it might help if she has some… support.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Refusing. </span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Santana winced, politely thanking the nurse before hopping back into the driver’s seat. She wasn’t entirely sure what possessed her to deliberately miss the exit for Brittany’s house, but they were another twenty minutes down the freeway before the blonde realised something was up.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Where are we going?” Brittany wrinkled her face in confusion.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Somewhere we can talk.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">About half an hour later, Santana pulled up in the middle of an empty carpark by a small, shallow lake. She hadn’t really known where she was taking them. Actually, she didn’t really have a plan at all; she just needed to resolve this somehow, and an abandoned nature reserve seemed like as good a place as any to talk without distraction.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">The engine shut off, then Brittany was looking at Santana expectantly and she realised that talking meant, well… actually talking.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Dr. Wilson said you’re not doing anything in your sessions anymore.” </span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Brittany stiffened, “So?”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Oh, I don’t know,” Santana felt like a mother arguing with her own child, “I guess I’m having a hard time working out why I’m driving you to the hospital every second day if you’re not even <em>trying</em>. I mean, it sure isn’t for the quality in-car conversation-”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Tell me it’s not my fault." </span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“What?” Santana asked quietly.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“You, barely ever eating." Brittany shot up in her seat, "Tell me it didn’t start up again the day I was shot.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Santana stilled. Whatever she’d expected Brittany to hit her with, this wasn’t it. </span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Of course it didn’t,” Santana faltered, before suddenly realising that yes, it <em>did.</em></span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“You blame yourself.” Brittany concluded, her voice clipped. Cold. “Because you texted me, then the shooter heard it and I got shot. That’s why you’re being all weird and not taking care of yourself, because you think this is all your fault.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Shifting uncomfortably in her seat, Santana forced out a laugh, “Okay, Dr. Phil.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“And that’s why you haven’t gone back to New York yet.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Perhaps it was the lack of sleep, the never-ending judgements, the total ignorance on Brittany’s part, or all of the above, but something inside Santana snapped. </span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“You know what, I’m sick of this,” she got out of the car, marching towards the passenger side and throwing the door open, “Get out. Please. Carefully.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Brittany looked stunned as Santana lifted her out of the car, slinging an arm around her shoulder and leading her to sit on the bonnet. She paced up and down in front of Brittany, desperately trying to walk off some of the rage she was feeling before she involuntarily went <em>all Lima Heights </em>on the one person she’d never dream of doing that to. </span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">It was infuriating because for the first time in a long time, Brittany was so very wrong, even when she was right. It took another minute before Santana found the words to express that, and by then the blonde in front of her had folded her arms with a triumphant smirk on her face as if she’d <em>won. </em>That’s why, when Santana finally got her thoughts together, it came out in a broken, frustrated flurry; trying and failing to accurately summarise everything she’d held inside for weeks.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Do you think I like you yelling at me? Icing me out?” Santana fought the tremor in her voice, “Do you think I enjoy waiting outside for you every afternoon, because you won't let me come in and help like I'm meant to? I have spent hundreds of dollars bribing you to go to <em>your medical appointments</em>, because you’re too mad at me and the rest of the world to realise that they're actually helping. It's like you're hellbent on making the rest of our lives miserable because we dared to care about you.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Brittany’s face fell, all her earlier bravado dropped, but Santana was far from finished. She released a laboured exhale, raking her fingers through her hair in a desperate, last-ditch attempt to calm her nerves.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“And, you’re right,” she continued, “I haven't been eating properly. Because you almost <em>died </em>Brittany. That’s allowed to be something that stresses me out.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">There was gravel beneath Santana’s feet, crunching as she moved, and she couldn’t help but notice some of the stones were larger than others. Picking one up, Santana hurtled it into the lake before she registered what she was doing. But it felt good, so she picked up another, then another, and another… until her arms grew tired and she remembered who her audience was. Santana turned around to find Brittany watching with tears in her eyes, and softened slightly; all her earlier rage simmering, cast away with the throw of each and every stone.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Silence passed between them for perhaps a moment too long, growing heavier by the minute and Santana felt the need to fill it, despite the fact that the urge to crumble into pieces was rapidly overtaking any other sense she still had left.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“I’m always going to wonder what might’ve happened if I hadn't texted you while you were in that bathroom,” she choked out through tears, “But I’m not here in Lima playing nurse because I <em>feel bad</em>, okay? I’m here because I freaking love you.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Her feet carried her away from the car towards the trees, and Santana let them. It was about time she got to act like the five year old anyway.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Hey, that’s totally not fair,” Brittany called out from behind her, “I can’t even chase after you!”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1"> </p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> <em>5:30pm</em> </span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> <em>PillowPrincess: Did you just call? I’m in a study session.</em> </span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> <em> 5:31pm</em> </span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> <em> Boobs: Sorry, don’t worry about it. I’ll be fine</em> </span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> <em>5:32pm</em> </span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> <em>PillowPrincess: I wasn’t worried, but now I am…</em> </span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> <em>PillowPrincess: What’s wrong?</em> </span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> <em> 5:33pm</em> </span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> <em> Boobs: Nothing, forget it.</em> </span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> <em>5:34pm</em> </span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> <em>PillowPrincess: God you’re annoying</em> </span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> <em>PillowPrincess: I’ll call you back in an hour, okay? Don't do anything stupid</em> </span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> <em> 5:35pm</em> </span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> <em> Boobs: Sure.</em> </span>
</p>
<p class="p2"> </p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">In hindsight, leaving Brittany alone and defenceless in an abandoned carpark at dusk was an incredibly reckless thing to do. Santana realised that when she arrived back at the car, to find no sign of Brittany and all four of the car doors hanging wide open.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Brittany?” Santana called out, chest tightening at the thought of something happening to her.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Yeah?” The voice came immediately, from directly behind her. Santana whirled around to find Brittany, standing inches away from her on shaky legs and even shakier crutches.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“What are you doing?” Santana surged forward, catching Brittany by the waist to prop her up, then walking her back over to the car, “You can barely stand.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Brittany collapsed back against the bonnet, body already exhausted. “I was looking for you. I felt really bad about before, but you're so <em>fast</em>.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Blue eyes burnt into Santana’s skin, tracing the line of her face with such intent that Santana felt her heart skip a beat. It was only then, with Brittany’s eyes mere inches away from her own, that Santana realised her hand was still wrapped around Brittany’s waist; their bodies pressed together intimately against the car.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Sorry,” Santana cleared her throat, cheeks flushing with embarrassment.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">She began shifting back but Brittany caught her by the arm before she could move, trapping them both in place. A pair of soft hands cupped Santana’s face, and she closed her eyes instinctively as Brittany’s thumbs mapped out her jawline. Brittany rested their foreheads together, and it wasn’t until she spoke that Santana realised the blonde was crying.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“No, <em>I’m</em> sorry.” Brittany whispered brokenly, “I’m so, so sorry Santana.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Santana stifled a gasp, palming furiously at Brittany’s waist to pull her in closer. She felt Brittany thrust forward involuntarily until their hips clashed together, and scrambled to hold them both steady. They were both crying now, clinging to each other desperately in a carpark by a lake in the middle of nowhere.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“I’ll try,” Brittany placed a wet kiss against Santana’s cheek, the tip of her nose, her forehead, “I promise I’ll try. Just don’t go. You’re my best friend. Please don’t go.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Nodding, Santana took a slight step back, wiping one of Brittany’s tears away with her thumb whilst keeping her other hand at the blonde’s waist to keep them held firmly in place. She brushed away the loose strands of Brittany’s hair from her face before circling both arms around Brittany’s back, pulling her into a hug.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“I’m not going anywhere.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p2"> </p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Later, when they calmed down, Santana put Brittany back in the car and they drove home in near-total silence. It wasn’t until they were five minutes from Brittany’s house that she finally spoke again.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“I’m not angry at the world,” Brittany whispered, gazing out of the window into the night, “Just me.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Santana’s eyes flickered towards the other girl, before refocusing on the road. She knew what Brittany was getting at, and she understood the reasoning. Even if she didn’t wholly agree with it.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Because it hadn’t been Santana, or Quinn, or Rachel, or Mercedes in that bathroom.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">They’d all graduated.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">It hadn’t been Kurt, or Mike, or Puck, or Finn.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">They’d all graduated.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">When it came down to it, they could debate the semantics of Santana’s text message timings all night long, but ultimately the only person responsible for Brittany being in that bathroom almost a year after she should’ve graduated, was Brittany. </span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Personally, Santana was a lot angrier at the person who chose to shoot her for it.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">She reached over the console, closing her hand on top of Brittany’s and giving it a gentle squeeze.</span>
</p>
<p class="p2"> </p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“I know.”</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">________________________________________________________________________</span>
</p>
<p class="p2"> </p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">So what if it's complicated?</span>
</p>
<p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">All the greatest love stories are.</span>
</p>
<p class="p1"> </p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0005"><h2>5. The Glory That Was Home, is of Another Day</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p class="p1"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">It’s not over, what she has with Brittany.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Maybe it used to be, or maybe it never was. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Santana can’t really tell anymore.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">It’s been four weeks since the incident at the lake; since the irrevocable ‘I love you’ slipped out of Santana’s mouth, midway through an embarrassingly broken plea for Brittany to stop shutting her out. Four weeks since Brittany begged not to be left behind again, and since Santana promised she wouldn’t.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Four weeks of lingering glances, casual touches, and bafflingly easy conversation.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Four weeks of falling asleep together, of waking up together, and deciding to fall back to sleep again. Just for a little while longer.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Four <em>more </em>weeks of Santana’s real life being on pause, of batting away endless messages from her friends in New York about when she might be coming back. Santana told them the same thing every time; she wasn’t leaving until Brittany could walk again.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Four weeks of wondering what would happen when that day finally came.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Santana still didn’t know where Sam Evans was amid all of this, but he was there. Somewhere. Brittany seemed to mention him every time she was about to forget. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">It’s been four weeks, and Santana has somehow fallen more in love with her best friend than ever before.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Brittany isn’t even trying to act like she doesn’t feel the same anymore. </span>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">It’s not over.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">But it <em>is </em>confusing.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">______________________________________________________________________________</span>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> <em>3:34pm</em> </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> <em>BrittBritt: Breadstix tonight?</em> </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> <em> 3:45pm</em> </span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <em>Santana: We did Breadstix last night</em>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> <em>3:50pm</em> </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> <em>BrittBritt: :(</em> </span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <em>3:51pm</em>
</p><p class="p2">
  <em>Santana: Okay, but you’re paying this time.</em>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> <em>3:52pm</em> </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> <em>BrittBritt: It’s a date x</em> </span>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Oi, Sandbags,” Coach Sylvester boomed through her megaphone, “I’m not paying you to text your girlfriend, I’m paying you to torture my Cheerios.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Santana winced at the loud noise. Sue was standing less than half a meter away.</span>
</p><p class="p1"><span class="s1">Stuck in Lima with nothing better to do during the day, she’d taken the woman up on her long-standing offer to help coach the Cheerios on a <em>temporary </em>basis. It was hardly what she wanted to do forever, but it seemed like a good idea at the time given how much Sue was willing to pay her for it. In</span> <span class="s1"> her excitement to accept a wage that was nearly twelve times what she’d earn during a good week in New York, Santana had forgotten one crucial factor though. She had to work for Sue.</span></p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Quinn called it hazard pay.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Tossing the phone aside, Santana scowled at the unhinged cheer coach. “Relax, they’ve got plenty to do.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">The Cheerios were on the other side of the field, struggling to complete the last of what the team had not-so-fondly dubbed a ‘Satan set.’ Santana was actually quite proud of it. She’d come up with it one night in the early days of looking after Brittany, when the other girl wasn’t talking to her and the stress-induced insomnia drove her a little too crazy. At the time, the idea had been to push herself so far past the point of physical exhaustion that her body had no choice but to let her sleep. She’d shown it to Sue, who called her a genius and mandated that all Cheerios complete it at least once a week after practice. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Everyone hated her.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“How is Ms. Fabray, anyway?” Sue watched the team, eyes narrowed searching for anyone that might be cheating on their rep count.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Santana rolled her eyes. “For the last time, Quinn and I aren’t dating.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Well maybe you should reconsider.” Sue shrugged, “I’ve always thought the two of you would make a striking couple.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Quinn’s not gay.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“She isn’t?”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“No,” Santana scoffed, shaking off the foggy memory of her and Quinn’s rather enjoyable <em>two-time</em> thing before Sue had time to detect anything in her expression.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Interesting,” Sue hummed. She clapped her hands together, signalling towards Becky Jackson and propping the megaphone under her arm before walking away. “Well, I’ll leave you to abuse these losers when they get back for making me wait past 4 o’clock. See you tomorrow.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“I can’t tomorrow,” Santana called out, “Remember, I have that thing. I booked the afternoon off?”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Sue didn’t bother turning around, “Then I’ll see you the next day.”</span>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> <em>4:47pm</em> </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> <em>PillowPrincess: She’s right.</em> </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> <em>PillowPrincess: We would make a striking couple ;)</em> </span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <em>4:49pm</em>
</p><p class="p2">
  <em>Boobs: Ugh. Stop messing with me.</em>
</p><p class="p2"><span class="s1"> <em>Boobs: I can only deal with one </em></span> <span class="s1"> <em>s</em></span><span class="s1"><em>exually </em> </span></p><p class="p2"><span class="s1"><em>           confusing </em> </span> <span class="s1"> <em>friendship at a time</em> </span></p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> <em>4:51pm</em> </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> <em>PillowPrincess: I take it things are still weird with </em></span>
</p><p class="p1"><span class="s1"><em>                       Brittany </em> </span> <em>then?</em></p><p class="p2">
  <em>4:52pm</em>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> <em> Boobs: We have a ‘date’ tonight</em> </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> <em>4:53pm</em> </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> <em>PillowPrincess: I thought that was last night.</em> </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> <em>4:54pm</em></span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> <em> Boobs: It was.</em> </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> <em>4:55pm</em> </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> <em>PillowPrincess: Oh…</em> </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> <em> 4:56pm</em> </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> <em> Boobs: It won’t go anywhere.</em></span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <em>Boobs: She’s moved on.</em>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> <em>4:57pm</em> </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> <em>PillowPrincess: Mhmm.</em> </span>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">They were seated in their usual booth at Breadstix. Santana was starting to think the waitress reserved it specifically for them, given how often she and Brittany seemed to be there lately. Brittany was talking to her, something to do with Lord Tubbington launching a new line of feminine feline gaming products, but as hard as Santana tried, she couldn’t concentrate. Quinn’s teasing earlier that day had left her feeling decidedly off-kilter. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Then Tubbs caught me naked in the shower, and we got into this fight because I told him he can’t keep selling my body online without consent.” </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Wait, what?” Santana snapped out of her thoughts, unsure how they went from ‘playstation’ to ‘naked’ in the span of a few minutes.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Brittany smirked, “Was just trying to get your attention.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Feeling a blush creeping up her neck, Santana cleared her throat and busied herself with the menu. “Should we order?”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“We already did,” Brittany eyed her suspiciously, “Like… ten minutes ago, remember?”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Right, sorry.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Santana averted her gaze. She could feel Brittany watching her and figured she had about ten seconds to come up with a cover story before the girl grilled her about why she was acting so weird. As it turned out, she only had two.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Are you okay?” Brittany asked, “You seem a little out of it.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Smiling tightly, Santana did her best to reassure, “Yeah. I’m fine.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">It was clear from the look on Brittany’s face that she didn’t believe it, but to Santana’s relief, she let it slide. The blonde’s face clouded over with… something else, and she sat quietly for a minute. Watching.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“I wanted talk to you about something important,” Brittany spoke tentatively, “But if you’re distracted we can do it another time.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Santana didn’t dare hope that Brittany was about to say what she thought she was going to say, because it was all she’d been thinking about since the McKinley High graduation invitations went out last week. The future was so close, she could feel it. But the uncertainty of it all was keeping her awake at night. If there was even a slim chance that Brittany might be contemplating a life after graduation with her in it, Santana wanted to hear about that sooner rather than later.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“No, of course. Sorry.” She sat up in her chair, forcing a smile, “What’s up?”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Brittany hesitated, fidgeting with her knife and fork, “I want to walk across the stage at graduation.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Oh.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">It wasn’t quite what Santana was expecting, and a little confusing given that Brittany’s graduation was pretty much guaranteed this year. She played along anyway.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Okay, well your grades are fine now. Ms. Pillsbury said you were on track to make it this year, right?”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“No, that’s not what I meant.” Brittany shook her head, “I want to <em>walk.</em> Properly.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Santana felt her heart sink. Although Brittany was making progress in leaps and bounds during physiotherapy, she was still very much reliant on her walking aids to keep her moving, and graduation was only a few weeks away. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Britt,” she sputtered, “Don’t you think that’s a lot of pressure to put on yourself?”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Well if I can’t do it, I’m not going.” Brittany shrugged nonchalantly, and Santana scoffed at how stubborn she was being. “I thought you of all people would believe in me.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“I <em>do </em>believe in you, but-” Santana trailed off. Brittany was pouting like a five year old, eyebrow raised in challenge, and it dawned on her what this actually was. A test. She switched gears. “You’re going to need to work out a plan with Dr. Wilson. He’s the pro at this. And if he says no, it’s no.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">When Brittany’s face lit up, Santana knew she’d passed. “He won’t.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Have you heard from any other colleges yet?” Santana changed the subject, curious if nothing else. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Before the shooting, Brittany had just about every college in the country knocking on her door over her SAT scores. But she’d (understandably) fallen behind in a few of her classes since then, and even insanely high SAT scores only got you so far when you weren’t in school enough to finish the year out on a high.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“No,” Brittany shook her head, “MIT still want me to accept their early offer, but NYU doesn’t make offers for another couple of weeks. Louisville and Ohio State are good backups though, and they already said yes ages ago.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Santana nodded, taking a breadstick from the middle of the table to distract herself. “You think you might want to stay in Ohio, then?”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">A pregnant pause, then Brittany eyed her nervously, before shrugging. “I don’t know what I want.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">It shouldn’t have hurt. Santana knew all too well how confusing life after high school could be. Even after dropping out of Louisville and moving to New York, she’d floundered when it came to her next move. Sure, Santana enjoyed her life there, but she’d been directionless. Lost. She didn’t blame Brittany for being indecisive. Her whole future was riding on this decision. It made sense that she didn’t know what she wanted yet. Santana was still trying to figure all of that out for herself.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">It shouldn’t have hurt, but it did. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Yeah,” Santana cleared her throat, “I know the feeling.”</span>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> <em>9:31pm</em> </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> <em>BlockedCaller: Hello Santana.</em> </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> <em> 9:45pm</em> </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> <em> Santana Lopez: ?</em> </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> <em>9:52pm</em> </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> <em>BlockedCaller: Can I call you?</em> </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> <em>BlockedCaller: There is some business we urgently </em> </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> <em>                      need to discuss.</em> </span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <em>9:53pm</em>
</p><p class="p2">
  <em>Santana Lopez: … Sure.</em>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">The day after dinner, things felt different.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Well, Santana felt different.</span>
</p><p class="p1">Her conversation with Rachel Berry had made sure of that. Santana had been turning it over in her head ever since the girl hung up the phone, those familiar butterflies making themselves known in the pit of her stomach, kicking her insides relentlessly and refusing to leave her in peace no matter how nicely she asked. There'd been a sense of urgency about the call that demanded an immediate response, but Santana needed a minute to think first. It wasn't something she could make a decision about lightly.</p><p class="p1">She wasn't sure she could make a decision about it at all.</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">She’d taken the afternoon off work to go to Britt’s physiotherapy session. It was a longer one than usual, so they had to leave school a little early for it. Normally, Brittany would meet her out near the football field, and they’d walk an unnecessarily long distance to the car because the blonde wanted to prove she <em>could. </em>Except, half the time it ended in Santana carrying her the rest of the way, because she actually couldn’t. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Santana wasn’t sure she could handle being in such close physical proximity to Brittany today. Her brain was all over the place, and the last thing she needed was to screw up what little semblance of a normal friendship they had by acting even more mixed up about it than usual. So she made other arrangements. Brittany was meeting her at the front of the school instead.</span>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> <em>3:34pm</em> </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> <em>LadyHummel: Gordon wants to know if you </em> </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> <em>                      want your blue umbrella back.</em> </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> <em> 3:35pm </em></span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"><em>Satan: Who? </em> </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> <em>3:36pm</em> </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> <em>LadyHummel: Sleazy pizza guy from 3B. He’s </em> </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> <em>                      moving out.</em> </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> <em> 3:37pm</em> </span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <em>Satan: He can keep it.</em>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> <em> Satan: Who's going to give us free pizza now?</em> </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> <em>3:38pm</em> </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> <em>LadyHummel: I don’t know :( </em> </span>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Hey,” the passenger door swung open, Brittany leant against car so she could throw her crutches in the back, then flopped down gracelessly into the seat with a grunt, “You look nice.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Hesitating, Santana had to do a double take of what she was wearing: an old pair of Cheerios sweatpants and a black tank top that risked showing a little too much boob to be considered anywhere near dignified. She’d been in such a rush to leave the house that she’d barely even brushed her hair, instead sweeping it up in a messy ponytail to keep it out of the way. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Normally, she wouldn’t be caught dead in public like this, but her priorities had shifted since she’d last been in Lima and well… she just didn’t care today. She’d been up all night agonising over her phone call with Berry and was too exhausted to pay attention to anything that wasn’t a cup of coffee. The plan was to throw on a jacket when they got to the hospital and hope everyone was too busy saving lives to notice what a mess she was.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Is that a joke?” Santana turned the ignition, backing the car out of the parking lot. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“No, I like that top.” Brittany smirked, pointedly checking out Santana’s chest, “It brings out your eyes.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Santana scoffed, chuckling in spite of herself. It was all she needed to be able to relax again, and judging by the light giggle released afterwards, she was pretty sure that was exactly why Brittany had done it. She focused on the road ahead to get them to the hospital, all her earlier apprehension fading away with ease. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Okay, maybe not so different after all.</span>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> <em>4:10pm</em> </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> <em>PillowPrincess: This is big, Santana.</em> </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> <em>PillowPrincess: What are you going to do?</em> </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> <em>4:11pm</em> </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> <em> Boobs: Ugh, I have no idea.</em> </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> <em> Boobs: I’m not ready to leave yet.</em> </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> <em>4:12pm</em> </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> <em>PillowPrincess: You should tell her.</em> </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> <em>4:13pm</em> </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> <em> Boobs: Leave it, Quinn.</em> </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> <em> Boobs: It might be nothing.</em> </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> <em>4:14pm</em> </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> <em>PillowPrincess: It might be something. </em> </span>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Who are you texting?” Brittany was leaning against the railing, waiting for the physiotherapist to arrive. The look on her face was difficult to read.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Santana forced a smile, and she tucked the phone away into her pocket, “Just Quinn.” </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Oh, right.” Brittany huffed, “Duh.” </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Before Santana had a chance to respond, Dr. Wilson arrived and Santana took a seat on the bench, only speaking when spoken to or jumping in to help Brittany with an exercise whenever he asked. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">They went over the usual exercises, and Brittany flew through all of them effortlessly. Santana was so proud of how far she’d come, when only a few weeks earlier they were fighting to get her to even try them. If there was a smile forming on Santana’s face as she watched, then she wasn’t about to stop it.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">When the new exercises came out, so too did the Brittany that was frustrated and angry at the world. Santana watched wearily as the blonde hurled unnecessary snark at Dr. Wilson while he tried to teach her the movements. Both of them knew it was pointless to acknowledge her. Except, this time it was decidedly worse, because Dr. Wilson was trying to convince Brittany to let go of the railing guards, and had foolishly slotted himself in behind the girl in a bid to keep her upright. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Foolish, because it put him in prime position to be elbowed in the face.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Hard.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Brittany, what the hell?” Santana raced towards Dr. Wilson, who had recoiled and was folded forward slightly, to check he was okay. Other than a red face and wounded pride, he seemed to shake it off fairly quickly.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“It’s alright. I’m just going to go get some ice,” he grunted, fleeing the room before Brittany could get another hit in.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Santana rounded on Brittany, who didn’t seem to have even noticed the commotion she caused. She was stooped over one of the support railings, and it wasn’t until Santana got within a few feet of her that she realised the girl was quivering mess of silent whimpers and sobs.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">All of Santana’s anger melted away immediately.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Hey,” she whispered, gently taking the girl’s hand and guiding her to sit down on the bench, “What just happened?”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Brittany choked the words out through tears, frantically shaking her head, “It hurts. I can’t, Santana. Can we go? Please?”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">It broke Santana’s heart to see Brittany like that. She’d been in pain before in these sessions, usually when she pushed herself too far. But it never got to her this badly. All Santana wanted to do was take Brittany home and hide her away until she felt better, but then she remembered the whole reason they were here in the first place.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“No,” Santana swallowed, finding her resolve a minute later, “But you’re going to tell me where it hurts.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Without thinking, Santana led Brittany back to the railing. She didn’t really know what she was doing. But whatever it was, it was stupid. She wasn’t a doctor, and Brittany was resisting every step of the way. It was stupid. Reckless, stupid, and maybe even downright mean.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Still, she had to try.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Santana waited for Brittany to settle, then stood behind the blonde the same way Dr. Wilson had before, bracing either side of her hips; just like she’d seen him do. She pressed herself against Brittany’s back and positioned her weight towards the other girl’s right side in anticipation of assisting with the first round of movement. As she shifted, her hands traced against the jut of Brittany’s hipbone, and the other girl’s breath hitched, hips involuntarily canting up towards the touch. That was when Santana realised she’d made a mistake.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">A big one.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Brittany’s head turned into hers, and Santana found herself mere inches away from the face of a girl she’d once been very well acquainted with. A girl not unlike her best friend, only far more than that. Clouded blue eyes blinked ever so slowly, watching Santana with an intensity far too reminiscent of nights she’d reluctantly left behind long, long ago. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Eyes, piercing and blue, that carried with them memories of nights Santana had been desperately hoping to forget. Nights where Brittany had mapped every inch of her body with the tenderest of kisses, and where they’d whispered promises to each other that would never be kept. Nights, where Santana had realised what love was and been able to cherish it, even before she was brave enough to admit it out loud. Nights that had once been a treasured memory, but Santana had now buried deep in the hope of one day forgetting. Because she knew, in the deepest depths of her soul, that there’d never be a night like that with anyone else again.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">It was overwhelming. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">The blonde wobbled in place, absently tracing her tongue over her lower lip in concentration. Then, her eyes flicked down to Santana’s lips, and they were so<em> close </em>that all Santana wanted to do was reach forward and-</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">No.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">But, maybe.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">No.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">She didn’t get much of a chance to debate it. Brittany was leaning into her touch, and Santana found herself inexplicably drawn in with her until they melted together as one. She could feel the blonde’s heart beating rapidly against the front of her chest, her whole body softening in Santana’s hands as she let herself be held. Brittany’s breath hitched, then her grip on the handrails gradually slipped away, until Santana was the only one keeping them steady. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">The blonde let out a relieved gasp, the vibration rocking through Santana and shaking her to her core. She couldn’t help but lean in closer, balancing her chin in the crook of Brittany’s neck as they silently celebrated such a big win together. Brittany was standing on her own again.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Sort of.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Santana felt two hands close over hers, squeezing them tightly, and she pressed a tender, wet kiss into Brittany’s neck in response. It was far from appropriate, but neither of them cared. Brittany turned in her arms, and Santana’s breath caught in her throat as the other girl watched her. She realised how incredibly easy it would be to close the distance between them, to reclaim what had once been hers, and contemplated for just one fleeting moment, if it might be worth the risk of trying.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Then the door slammed, and Santana’s fantasy was abruptly shattered. Brittany rushed to grab the railing again, allowing Santana to step away just enough to create some much-needed distance between them before her head fell off.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Right,” Dr. Wilson hummed, looking slightly less battered than he had a few minutes earlier, “Shall we try that again?”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">It was Brittany who responded in the end, heated gaze directed towards Santana as she all-but ignored the doctor, even as he moved to resume his earlier position behind her. The blonde’s voice was laced with want, barely blinking as her lips quirked up into the tiniest of smiles. Santana thought she was going to pass out.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Definitely.”</span>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> <em>5:45pm</em> </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> <em>PillowPrincess: Seriously?</em> </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> <em>PillowPrincess: I’m calling you in 15 mins.</em> </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> <em>PillowPrincess: We need to talk about this before </em> </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> <em> you do something stupid.</em> </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> <em>5:46pm</em> </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> <em> Boobs: Sorry, can’t.</em> </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> <em> Boobs: Britt’s parents are out. </em> </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> <em>           I said I’d spend the night.</em> </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> <em>5:47pm</em> </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> <em>PillowPrincess: Jesus Christ.</em> </span>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Quinn again?” Brittany flopped sideways onto her bed, forcing Lord Tubbington into the air despite his protests.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Grabbing the crutches from where they leant against the bed-frame, Santana cast them aside before gently lifting Brittany’s legs onto the bed and repositioning her with practiced ease, “Yeah. She’s pissed.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“About what?”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Santana paused, soon realising she shouldn’t have said anything at all. Now was not the time to talk about anything to do with Quinn or Rachel or anyone else who wasn't her and Brittany. The blonde was staring at the ceiling, parading Lord Tubbington through the air like a pride flag, but it was obvious she was waiting for an answer.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Nothing in particular, you know Quinn,” she dismissed it casually. “Did you pick a movie yet?”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Brittany huffed, and Santana knew she didn’t buy it. She dropped Tubbs to the side and shuffled up slightly on the pillow to tilt her head up, apparently electing to let it go anyway. “I’m torn between Bring it On and Bring it On Again.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“All or Nothing it is.” Santana poked her tongue out, carrying the laptop over to the other side of the room to set it up, and maybe taking a little too much advantage of the fact Brittany’s movements were limited. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“We just watched that one though.” Brittany pouted, sulking into the pillows.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“That was three weeks ago. We’ve watched Bring it On Again three times <em>this week.</em>”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Well, yeah. It’s the best one.” </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Santana frowned, “All or Nothing has the best dancing and the hottest girls.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“You’re only saying that because you have a crush on Beyonce’s sister.” Brittany teased, shuffling aside slightly as Santana hopped on the bed beside her.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Who told you that?”</span>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> <em>6:32pm</em> </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> <em>PillowPrincess: You can’t avoid this forever.</em> </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> <em>PillowPrincess: If you told her she’d tell you to go.</em> </span>
</p><p class="p1"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> <em>6:34pm</em> </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> <em>PillowPrincess: Is that what you’re worried about?</em> </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> <em>PillowPrincess: Makes total sense.</em> </span>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> <em>6:35pm</em> </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> <em>PillowPrincess: This is a big deal, Santana.</em> </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> <em>PillowPrincess: You have to face it.</em> </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> <em>PillowPrincess: Brittany would agree with me.</em> </span>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> <em>6:36pm</em> </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> <em>PillowPrincess: Maybe I’ll tell her.</em> </span>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“I think your phone is about to vibrate itself off the table.” Brittany’s voice was muffled by the side of the pillow. She looked sleepily up at Santana, who was sitting upright against the pillows at the top of the bed. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Sorry,” Santana reached for the phone, “It’s probably Quinn.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Who else?” Brittany rolled her eyes, turning back to the movie.</span>
</p><p class="p1"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> <em>6:37pm</em> </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> <em> Boobs: Don’t you dare.</em> </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> <em>6:38pm</em> </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> <em>PillowPrincess: Fine. </em> </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> <em>PillowPrincess: But you really need to.</em> </span>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Santana had been just about to reply when she heard a faint sniffle coming from where Brittany lay beside her. Instinctively, she reached down to start stroking gentle patterns into the other girl’s scalp.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Hey,” she soothed gently, “What’s wrong?”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Nothing,” Brittany sniffed, curling into Santana’s side, “I just miss it.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Shuffling down the bed until her head was on the opposite pillow, Santana turned in to face Brittany, only to find that the blonde was entirely focused on the movie now. Groups from each of the two rival cheerleading teams were going head to head for the first time.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Miss what?” </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Dancing.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Santana sighed, reaching for Brittany’s hand and interlacing their fingers together between them on the bedsheets. The movement was enough to draw Brittany away from the screen, and she watched Santana curiously. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“You’ll dance again,” Santana whispered.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Brittany’s voice was hoarse from all the crying, “How can you be so sure?”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Because,” Santana swallowed thickly, playing with Brittany’s fingers as she spoke, “I’m sure of you.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Brittany’s eyes darkened at the touch, breath catching in her throat. She waited for a long while before saying anything at all.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Sam and I broke up.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Santana stiffened, glancing up to find Brittany watching her carefully, no doubt awaiting a reaction of some sort. Unsure which one she was expected to give, Santana decided it would be far easier to keep focusing on Brittany’s hands instead. “Are you okay?”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Yeah,” Brittany sighed, inching imperceptibly closer, “It happened a while ago. I just thought you should know.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">The timing was suspicious, the words cryptic. Santana couldn’t help but wonder how long it’d been, or why Brittany had kept it from her. She thought they told each other everything.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“When?”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Brittany’s face was basically touching Santana’s now. Her nose grazed gently against hers, and Santana’s breath caught in her throat. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Does it matter?”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Eyes flickering down towards Brittany’s, Santana gulped. She’d never been good at arguing with Brittany, let alone when they were this close, and Brittany was looking at her like <em>that. </em>It was intoxicating. “Not really.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Good.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">It was then, as the film in front of them switched to a slightly duller scene, that Santana realised exactly how dark it had gotten outside. As Brittany lay there, face half-smothered by her pillow, the outline of her soft features began to glow, as what little remained of the afternoon light trickled in through the window behind her. It was totally cheesy, but Santana wondered for a second if she might’ve actually been dreaming.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Santana had always struggled to see in the darkness, but Brittany’s eyes only seemed to come alive more. The blonde stared at her with the kind of openness and vulnerability she’d always offered freely to Santana until lately, when the world forced her to close off and protect herself for a change. It was so jarring to see it again, familiar yet unfamiliar, but Santana would recognise it anywhere. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">There were certain things in life that you never forgot.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Ever since she returned to Lima, Santana had been on edge. She’d become a nervous wreck at the best of times, constantly checking her phone waiting for the next shoe to drop, even if it hadn’t done so in weeks. But no level of anxiety she’d ever experienced compared to the way her heart felt in that moment, when Brittany’s breath tickled against her cheek as she released a soft exhalation. Santana’s heart was thudding so erratically she thought it might leap out of her chest. She might actually have forgotten how to breathe.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Brittany watched her quietly, as if completely unaware she was having the kind of effect that could literally kill a person. The movie switched back to something bright enough for them to be able to see again, but Santana didn’t care about that anymore. The air between them had shifted, and there was no going back. They’d been on the precipice together for weeks, and up until now Sam Evans had been the only obstacle stopping Santana from diving in head first and taking Brittany down with her. Now, he’d been removed from the very pretty picture she and Brittany had been recreating together, and Santana was at a complete loss for what to do next.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Brittany’s legs slid across the sheets, her movement both hesitant and hindered by her ongoing recovery. It was ample time for Santana to move away, to end whatever this was before it started, but she lay still, frozen, until a leg moved over her thigh and hooked her in so that their hips were touching. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">It didn’t feel right to do this now. Not when Brittany hadn’t made a decision about her future and Rachel Berry had just thrown a spanner in Santana’s life that was making her question her own… but Brittany’s calf was smoothing gently against hers, and it was hard for Santana to remember what the point was in fighting it anymore. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Santana instinctively snuck her hand in the tiny space between them, retaking hold of Brittany’s fingers. They fit together the same way they always had. Like no one else’s ever could.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">They both knew what was going to happen. But Brittany hesitated for a fraction of a second before closing the distance between them, and in that split second Santana decided she might be imagining the whole thing. Then Brittany’s eyes closed, and there was nothing but the warmth of her lips as they connected with Santana's own. The blonde sighed against her mouth, and Santana revelled in the taste of her as their lips clashed together, pressing deeper, desperately against each other like never before.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">It was somehow soft and primal at the same time, because the two of them never really knew how to balance those extremes when they were together, and going without it for so long had only exacerbated that aching <em>need </em>to love and lust after each other completely, all at once. Tracing eagerly over Santana’s waist, Brittany’s hand snuck forward until Santana felt it settle in the small of her back. Hips pumped against her own, cautious and barely there, but it was enough to stir the most agonising sensations in the pit of Santana’s stomach. Brittany swallowed the moan that ripped out of her throat at the contact, their lips reconnecting as Santana’s body arched into her touch.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">She’d lost control already, and the tiniest of voices that was suggesting she put a stop to this was growing quieter by the minute. As she slid her tongue inside Brittany’s mouth, Santana chose to ignore it completely. Rolling onto her back, she used the momentum to shift Brittany with her until the blonde was pulled flush against her chest, legs tangling and hips canting with the ever-pressing need to get closer.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">There was a part of Santana which registered this might have escalated too quickly; even in the face of their separation and everything they’d been through since, but a larger part of her didn’t give a fuck. She let out a gasp, desperate for air, and Brittany used the moment as an opportunity to pull away, depriving Santana of her lips only for a minute before latching onto her jaw to scatter frantic, burning kisses all the way down to the base of her neck. She buried her lips there, nipping and sucking against the column of Santana’s throat so hungrily Santana knew she’d be concealing marks there for weeks to come.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">It was a loud crashing noise, so intrusive and foreign and <em>nothing </em>like the sound of Brittany whimpering, that brought them both to their senses. They snapped back to discover the laptop, bent in half and scattered on the floor in a way that suggested they might need to find another device to watch movies on next time. One of them must’ve knocked it off the bed.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Santana was panting, struggling to catch her breath. Brittany tilted her chin up to look at her, settling against her chest with one hand rubbing gently at Santana’s heart, as if willing it to settle down. Santana could feel Brittany’s chest thudding just as heavily against her own.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Brittany watched her, eyes so wide and full of hope, that Santana knew it was now or never. She owed it to both of them to be honest, or they might end up right back where they started the last time Santana held her feelings back. If they were going to do this, Brittany needed to have all the information first. She swallowed, letting her words escape in a whisper.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“I have to tell you something.”</span>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> <em>7:45pm</em> </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> <em>PillowPrincess: Did you tell her yet?</em> </span>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> <em>8:15pm</em> </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> <em>PillowPrincess: How about now, have you told her?</em> </span>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> <em>8:45pm</em> </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> <em>PillowPrincess: How about now?</em> </span>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Carmen Tibideaux was having a mid-life crisis.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Santana had thought long and hard about it, and it was really the only explanation for why the creative director of Rachel and Kurt’s stupid, pretentious dramatic arts school that Santana had <em>no </em>interest in attending, had appointed the apparently evil Cassie July as head of a new contemporary performance branch aimed at recruiting a fresh new crop of talent and transforming them into superstars. They were currently recruiting twenty people for the flagship program next semester.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Rachel was baffled, and just as convinced as Santana that those in charge of her precious school had officially lost the plot. Apparently, though, when Carmen Tibideaux and Cassandra July pull you into their office and ask you to identify the mysterious girl who took over a NYADA dance studio and led a group of students seamlessly through a performance of a Paula Abdul song with no rehearsal whatsoever, you tell her it’s your roommate. Regardless of how you might feel about the ‘artistic integrity’ of the new program.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">When Carmen Tibideaux reveals that very person is the <em>reason </em>for her midlife crisis? Well, Rachel agreed to at least call Santana and let her know about it.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Santana Lopez had been personally invited to audition for NYADA.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Next week.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“You have to go, Santana.” Brittany sat on the end of her bed, watching as Santana paced up and down the room. She’d been rambling for a while now, tossing the various possibilities back and forth, and Brittany stayed quiet the whole time. Needless to say that only made Santana more on edge about it all.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Santana stopped to look at the other girl. Her hair was still ruffled from earlier, shirt slightly askew, and Santana wanted nothing more than to pick up where they left off. They could have this conversation another time instead.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“NYADA’s not my dream, Brittany,” she huffed. “You know that.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Brittany tapped her lap, prompting Lord Tubbington to leap into it immediately. “No. But you’d be performing all the time. And you’d meet people who could help you get famous.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“What if I don’t want that anymore either?” Santana bit back.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">If Brittany was taken aback by her sudden hostility, she hid it well. “What do you want, then?”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Santana paused, contemplating the question. It was confusing, and she’d honestly surprised herself as she said it. If there was one thing she knew about herself it was that she wanted to be famous. She didn’t know what for or how to get there, because there were so many ways she <em>could </em>get there. But the end goal was still the same as it had always been.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Fame was her birthright. </span>
</p><p class="p1"><span class="s1">Honestly, it was more of an act of service at this point. Santana owed it to the world to show them all of her awesomeness. She’d dreamt of it when she was little and worked for it with every good (and okay, also bad) decision she’d ever made. </span> <span class="s1">There was no doubt about it. Santana Lopez was going to become famous one day.</span></p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">She wanted the cheering crowds, who loved to watch her perform as much as she loved to do it.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">She wanted to create, and move people with words and music and whatever else she could get her hands on.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">She wanted the interviews, where she talked about what inspired her and what her next move would be; where she inspired others with her story.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">She wanted the recognition, the fancy houses and the fast cars.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">She wanted to be known</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">She wanted to be loved.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">But now, after months spent alone and a life-or-death level catastrophe under her belt, it had only just dawned on Santana that she didn’t want any of it without Brittany.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Shrugging wordlessly as pressed her lips inward to hold back a sob, Santana crossed her arms and waited for Brittany to understand, like she always did. The blonde smiled softly, eyes shining, and returned Santana's sentiment with a reluctant shrug of her own.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“You should go, Santana.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“What about you?” Santana argued, catching it a minute too late and cursing herself silently. As if Brittany was ever going to let her stick around and play caretaker now that she knew what she’d be missing out on if she did. She cleared her throat, struggling to recover, “I mean, what do you want?”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Brittany’s lips quirked up into a sad, half smile. “I don’t know.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">It shouldn’t have hurt.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">But it did.</span>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> <em>9:30pm</em></span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> <em> Santana Lopez: Okay.</em> </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> <em>9:31pm</em> </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> <em>BlockedCaller: Okay what?</em> </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> <em> 9:32pm</em> </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> <em> Santana Lopez: Okay, I’ll come back.</em> </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> <em>9:33pm</em> </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"><em>BlockedCaller:</em> <em>Yay, thank you!</em></span>
</p><p class="p1"><span class="s1"> <em>BlockedCaller: Cassie July looked just </em> </span> <span class="s1"> <em>about </em> </span></p><p class="p1"><span class="s1"> <em>                      ready</em></span> <span class="s1"><em> to kill me yesterday.</em> </span></p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> <em> 9:35pm</em> </span>
</p><p class="p2">
  <em>Santana Lopez: Sounds like she and I will get </em>
</p><p class="p2">
  <em>                        along really well.</em>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">They did get along well.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">At least, by Santana’s standards they did.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Cassie July was like a young, insanely hot Sue Sylvester. That is, she knew talent when she saw it.After giving Santana some crap about how being friends with Berry resulted in automatic disqualification, which Santana had effortlessly swatted away with a snarky quip of her own, the audition was over and Carmen was thanking her for coming before Cassie could get another word in. They parted with what Santana could only describe as a mutual, if somewhat begrudging, respect for one another.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">The offer letter came in the mail three weeks later.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Rachel and Kurt <em>insisted </em>on going out to celebrate.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Santana Lopez,” Kurt screeched as he hammered his fist against the bathroom door, “I’m sure you look amazingly hot already. Let’s go!”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Santana rolled her eyes, checking herself over one last time in the mirror before conceding. Because, yes, she did indeed look hot. She’d looked hot for weeks, actually. Smokin’ hot. Leaving Brittany behind had been one of the hardest things she’d ever had to do, and being the third time around in so many months, it had just about broken her for good. But she’d be lying if she said she hadn’t at least felt a little bit of a thrill when she made it back to New York. It was like her body was having a physical response to being surrounded by all of the awesome again, even if her heart wasn't quite there yet.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">This was her home now. It made her come alive in a way Lima never could. But there was a quiet discomfort that followed Santana everywhere she went, and she wasn’t sure how much longer she could ignore it before the high she’d been riding turned into a low again. Because it was persistent, like that nagging feeling you get when you’ve lost your keys, or your wallet, and your instincts are trying to tell you something’s missing.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"><em>Someone</em> was missing.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">For the millionth time that evening, Santana checked her phone. This afternoon was Brittany’s graduation, and Santana had missed it because her stupid manager threatened to fire her if she left her shift early that day to make it in time. Usually, she’d take her chances, but this was a new job and she needed the money now that she was back having to pay rent and college tuition in the big city. Sue’s extra Cheerios cash would only get her so far. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Brittany had been working her body overtime, as much as the doctors would allow, so that she could walk across the stage and get her diploma. The last few weeks had been intense, and it broke Santana’s heart that she was only there to hear about it over the phone, instead of helping her through the rest of her physiotherapy in person like she should’ve been. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">It was all for one end goal though, which Brittany was determined to reach no matter how many people offered her an out. She told Santana she was going to walk across that stage if it was the last thing she ever did (and yes, that did lead to a brief fight about saying such a thing, given what they’d gone through).</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Except, the ceremony was hours ago and Santana still hadn’t heard anything. No text to say she'd made it without falling, no phone call to cry if she hadn't. Santana was trying not to read into it, telling herself everything went well. That Brittany must've got caught up in the excitement of it all and probably just forgot to let her know how it all went because she was out celebrating with the rest of her class. Still, the last time Brittany disappeared, well…</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Santana didn’t really want to think about that. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">The bathroom door flew open, and with it came Rachel Berry, dressed to the nines in a sparkly silver dress that was somehow oddly flattering, despite being several steps past the point of too much. “Kurt said you’re taking too long-”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Rachel’s face fell at the sight of her, and it was only then that Santana thought to look at her own reflection in the mirror again. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">She was crying.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“I’m fine,” she wiped her eyes carefully to avoid having to redo her makeup.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“No you’re not. What’s wrong?” </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Santana rolled her eyes, moving towards the door only to be blocked by Rachel on the way.The smaller brunette raised one eyebrow in challenge, and they entered a momentary stand-off not unlike those from some particularly intense moments in their high school years. Ordinarily Santana might’ve beaten the dwarf down until she moved, but instead she found herself bursting into tears. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Kurt, change of plans,” Rachel called over her shoulder. “We’re staying in.” </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">She rushed forward, pulling Santana down into a hug. All Santana could do was let herself be held there, clutching to her roommate until there were no tears left to cry.</span>
</p><p class="p1"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> <em>11:00pm</em> </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> <em>BrittBritt: Sorry I didn’t text earlier</em> </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> <em>BrittBritt: I got a little distracted.</em> </span>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Once again, Santana was sandwiched between Rachel and Kurt on the couch when Brittany’s texts came through. They’d showered her in comfort foods all night, and let her pick the movie for a change. Her roommates still annoyed the living crap out of her most days, but she’d be lying if she said she wasn’t grateful for them right now. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">She might’ve been a bit of a mess lately.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Her phone was on the dining table, forcibly removed by the Olsen twins earlier that night when she’d been obsessing over it a little too much. They’d called Blaine to establish that Brittany was indeed ‘okay,’ and forced Santana to spend a night learning how to not be such a pathetic loser again. All bets were off now though, and Santana leapt off the couch to check it.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">There was a quiet knock on the door, interrupting Santana’s thoughts as she read the message.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Are you guys expecting someone?” she asked, only to be met with not one but two confused shakes of the head. She fired off a response, then went to check out who it was.</span>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> <em>11:01pm</em></span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> <em> Santana: That’s okay</em> </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1"> <em> Santana: How’d it go?</em> </span>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">The roller door creaked open, right as the unmistakeable sound of a double message alert reverberated through the outside hallway and into the apartment. Santana found herself stood opposite a piercing set of blue eyes, blonde locks and a pair of crutches dangling idly beside someone who didn’t appear to be using them anymore. Behind her, she vaguely registered Kurt and Rachel asking who it was, but was too caught up in the sight in front of her to respond.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Hi,” she managed in the end. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">The blonde reached out, taking her by the hand and threading their fingers together. She squeezed gently, until Santana looked up, then tugged her in impossibly close until their faces were only inches apart. Her nose grazed against Santana’s cheek, her voice a fragile whisper.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">“Ask me again.”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Santana shuddered, swallowing nervously as the heat of Brittany’s gaze travelled straight to the pit of her stomach. She could feel her hands starting to shake, settled only by the sensation of Brittany’s skin against hers. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Third time lucky, right?</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">The words were broken, wrestled forcibly out of a heaving chest, “What do you want?”</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Brittany never responded.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Instead, she reached into her pocket and wordlessly dropped a small set of keys into Santana’s hand with ‘3B’ inscribed on the keychain. Santana stared at them, frowning in confusion. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">3B.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">As in…</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Surely not?</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Before Santana could think to respond, Brittany surged forward to connect their lips together. Santana’s eyes fluttered closed as a pair of soft hands slid up to enclose around the nape of her neck. She gasped against Brittany’s lips, keys crashing to the floor as she gripped at the other girl’s waist, holding her there like she might disappear if Santana dared let go, even for a second. They pulled away from each other as quickly as they’d fallen together, and Santana allowed herself to be swept into Brittany’s arms as she had so many times before; holding her tight and impossibly close, in the hope of conveying every word and every feeling she'd been too afraid to admit out loud for months. </span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Then, there was nothing but the two of them, starting the rest of their lives together in the doorway of a musty New York loft while the world’s two most annoying roommates cheered them on from the living room and yelled something painfully cliche about a U-Haul.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">Brittany never responded, but she didn’t need to. Not really.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">They both already knew the answer.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">______________________________________________________________________________</span>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">It’s not over.</span>
</p><p class="p1">
  <span class="s1">It’s only just beginning.</span>
</p><p class="p1"> </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Thanks to those of you who stuck around til the end, hope you enjoyed! </p><p>I've decided to make this into a series, so the next round will be told from Brittany's POV. Stay tuned :)</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
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